


my head is bloody, but unbowed

by Sadhippie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sansa Stark Doesn't Marry Ramsay Bolton, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Gen, Healing, House Tully, Hurt/Comfort, Political Jon Snow, Regent Sansa Stark, Sansa-centric, northern independence, not Dany friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadhippie/pseuds/Sadhippie
Summary: Jeyne Westerling, chestnut curls and slender figure everything she brought with her. A child on her hip. Auburn hair and blue eyes, a toothy grin and Sansa had never hated a woman so dearly."Little Lord, Eddard Stark, Winterfell is yours," Sansa offered her brother’s heir, solemn words to a child who could not understand the misery attached to them.While the Dragon Queen keeps a white wolf as prisoner, there are more dangerous games being played North. While there is a stream, there will always be trouts, even if they share their blood with wolves.
Relationships: Jeyne Poole & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark & Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, Sansa Stark & Edmure Tully, Sansa Stark & Starks
Comments: 142
Kudos: 294





	1. Chapter 1

She came with a warm wind from the South, on the early of the morrow.

A child on her hip. Auburn hair and blue eyes, a toothy grin and Sansa had never hated a woman so dearly.

Jeyne Westerling, chestnut curls and slender figure everything she brought with her, besides the covered man who stood slightly behind her. The woman for whom her brother lost the war. The woman whose honour Robb Stark had to protect. The woman for whom he was brave enough to defy his lords. Never for his sisters. The woman for whom he had broken all oaths, forsaken all vows, stood before the women who had suffered because of it.

"I named him Eddard for... "

Sansa clenched her jaw and saw everything that could come of this moment. Of what could come of a child that looked so much like her brothers, like herself, like her mother. A child who could so easily be malleable and she imagined the most ambitious of her bannermen’s hungry glares though they had not yet been called forth from their keeps to witness her fall and another’s ascension.

For a moment – one small terrible moment – she looked upon her brother’s child and she wished he was Rickon. Baby Rickon. She wished the Bolton bastard had lied and that before her returned her baby brother. Him, she would have made King without a moment’s notice, without hesitation, without second-guessing. The thought terrified her.

Sansa looked behind her. To Bran. To whatever Bran was now. Bran who showed no emotion at the sight of their brother’s child and yet gave her a solemn nod to confirm the child’s identity and once – she might have needed more – but he had spoken of secrets only Jeyne knew and Sansa would not doubt kin that spoke the truth to her, no matter how unkind.

She looked to Arya, who had a lovely smile on her face. Her eyes bright as she looked upon her brother’s child. _Hope_. There was hope in her eyes, to rebuild a family who seemed nothing more than ghosts now. It brought bile to her throat that she would not see what Sansa saw. That her sister could not see the consequences of this moment and side by side it reviled Sansa that she could think of nothing else.

And then to Jeyne. _Her Jeyne_. The Arya for whom Jon had sent Free Folk to deliver from Bolton hands. The Arya for whom Sansa had called forth the Knights of the Vale to deliver from Bolton grasp. Jeyne who cried in her arms in Castle Black and told her every awful thing that had come of her. Jeyne who begged her not to send her back when a letter from the Bolton dog came.

Jeyne who stood beside her as she rallied northern houses to take back Winterfell and the North. Jeyne who squeezed her hand when Jon was given the crown of Winter. Jeyne who squeezed her hand harder when Davos was named Hand of the King. Jeyne Poole, her truest advisor, her most loyal friend. Jeyne who had suffered the price for Northern Independence more than anyone, gave her a solemn nod. They knew what had to be done.

"Little Lord, Eddard Stark, Winterfell is yours," she said to a child who could not understand the weight of her words, the heaviness on her tongue. She spoke solemn words to a child who could not understand the misery attached to them.

"Lady Jeyne, the North welcomes you, you shall always have a place within the halls of Winterfell." Sansa never felt as stupid she did when she uttered those words, as she welcomed her brother’s widow into her own household. The rightful Lady of Winterfell.

There was a man behind her. Watching her carefully. Sansa had allowed him this. Had known who he was ever since he had crossed the gates of Winterfell as soon as Brienne whispered it into her ear. Yet he seemed intent on watching her, so she allowed it. She had always deferred to the men of her family. So she allowed him to test her, them, if that was what he wished. Sansa had always been eager to please.

Still, she didn’t know why those were the words that rose him from his place of obscurity. Perhaps it was the solemnness of her tone. She had learned _that_ from her mother. Perhaps it was the duty. Tully duty that rolled of her tongue as if she were more trout than direwolf. Perhaps she was. A Tully of Winterfell, for there was no honour to her. There was no honour to survivors, not when all the gods were dead. And from now on there was no place in Winterfell for her. A Tully indeed.

He removed his cloak and stepped forward, a grin on his face. And Sansa spared herself the indignity of having to pretend she knew not who he was.

“Ser Brynden,” she greeted him, forcing something on her face that could be considered a smile by someone who did not know her. Not as a girl. Not as a maiden. These were the smiles she spared now, as a woman. Grown. And flowered. And trueborn. Whatever that had achieved her.

“Little C-” he stopped himself and there was mercy to that.

There was mercy that shame coloured his features, that he clenched his jaw and that he cast his eyes down at the sight of the grace with which she held her chin to remind him of his failings.

She had heard so many tales of this man. Who was more beloved than a father. So much more than an Uncle. She had heard of his bravery, of his loyalty, of his resolve. Of the loyalty with which she left his brother to serve the niece who had been sold to a man old enough to be her grandsire. And then she had also heard from Lady Brienne of how he refused her call. His niece’s call. Sansa understood so well now. The child made it so easy to understand now. And so much sharper the betrayal.

His eyes only left her face for a moment, his eyes filling with surprise at recognizing Stark and Tully faces beside her. Eyes who searched Arya’s, who only raised a brow to him and then Bran’s, yet he wouldn’t find any more warmth there.

“My Lady Stark,” he said now, as he bowed his head to her.

“Welcome to Winterfell Ser. I must write to my Lords of these good tidings. Lady Poole shall take you to your chambers,” she told them as she made her way out of the room, not sparing a moment to see them bow.

  
  


“He looks like him. Tully hair. Tully eyes,” Sansa confessed into the silence of her father’s chambers. Only the sound of her Lady Mother’s brush running through her hair fighting against the hollowness of what were once the liveliest chambers of the main keep.

“He does,” Jeyne agreed, her tone giving none of her thoughts away.

“She’s…” Sansa sighed “…pretty.”

“Not enough to lose a kingdom for,” Jeyne remarked rather bitterly. 

“Is there enough beauty to compensate such a loss?” Sansa wondered, turning slightly around to face her. Jeyne’s nose was still healing from the frostbite, but she hadn’t lost it, Sansa had thanked the Gods for it, though she did not believe in them. Jeyne deserved whatever kindness they could still spare her.

“To a man?” she shrugged, but there was bite to her tone. “Jon Snow might be the only one with the answer.”

Sansa took a deep breath and straightened her spine like her mother taught her.

Jeyne winced and her arms fell to her sides, trembling. “F-Forgive me. Your Grace,” she staggered, her eyes firmly cast on the floor, her body perfectly still, waiting to be beaten.

Sansa breath caught in throat and she turned to her in her chair. Taking care not to touch her or make any sudden movements. “You didn’t say anything wrong. You could _never_ say anything wrong to me,” she assured her.

Jeyne nodded slightly and took a staggered breath. Opening and closing her hands to regain feeling, though she persisted with her eyes firmly on the floor.

“Jeyne, would you look at me, if it please you,” Sansa asked tenderly, giving her a chance to refuse her.

Jeyne obliged and Sansa saw the unshed tears in her eyes.

“You are my most trusted advisor. My dearest friend. I would never find fault in you for speaking the truth to me,” she promised her softly, the letter still burning on her pocket. “You are safe.” But that didn’t sound true to either of them, so she tried again, “wherever my words bear weight, you are safe.” And that sounded like a truthful vow to her, something steady Jeyne could hold onto.

Jeyne nodded and took a deep breath. “I know you would never… But sometimes…” she swallowed drily. “He need not say anything, and I knew… And I cannot forget that. No matter how dearly I wished I could.”

Sansa nodded and bit the inside of her cheek to keep her tears at bay. Only Jeyne was allowed to cry for this, she would not impose her own tears on her.

“I have watched him die. I have heard him scream and beg for mercy. I have watched as the hounds who ate him were butchered. I have watched his bones being eaten by pigs. I have watched him fade into nothingness. And still…” She shook her head, took a deep breath again and brought her hands to her waist in an effort to steady herself. Her voice didn’t waiver when she said, “It doesn’t matter now. He is nothing. And I am alive.”

“You are more than that. You are Jeyne Poole, Lady of Whitefort, most beloved friend, most trusted counsel, _family_ ,” she reminded her evenly, slowly. “Shall I do your hair now, Jeyne?”

Jeyne had changed the Dreadfort’s name as soon as it had been decided she would keep it. Both of them knew she would never step foot in it, but together they had procured a worthy castellan. Winterfell was close enough that she could stay here as her advisor and control her holdings by ravens. She had ordered the kennels destroyed, whatever remains hidden in darkened rooms buried, whatever skeleton decorations burned. Most of the crops sent to Winterfell to help with the war effort.

They both understood of the likelihood Jeyne might never endure bearing children, should she make the decision to keep herself so, Whitefort would become property of Winterfell once again after her death. Sansa would not let her be concerned with the matter. Jeyne deserved nothing more than peace.

Jeyne nodded slowly and Sansa rose so they might switch places. Jeyne carefully sat where once had been Lady Catelyn’s seat. Took the brush to her brown hair, took care not to pull on any threads as she undid her tight braids.

There were words Sansa wanted to say. Plans she wanted to go over. Escape routes she wanted to dig with Jeyne. But that would not do today. Today was a day to mourn the past.

“I would go with you,” she told her suddenly, as she rubbed oils on her scalp to strengthen the hair made thin and frail by the hardships she had endured. “To the Vale. I would go with you if you would allow it.”

Sansa’s hands stopped and for a second she closed her eyes in gratitude. Rested her hands on Jeyne’s shoulders, gave them a gentle squeeze. Nevertheless she shook her head.

“You have a seat here. Men who bow to you, whose sword you command. I won’t ask you to leave the security it provides. I cannot ask you to give it away. I won’t.”

Jeyne turned back to look at her and placed one of her hands above her own.

“I have a seat because you made it so. The men answer to me because you commanded them to, fought for my rights as a widow. Whatever security I have been provided, has been by your voice and presence alone. I belong wherever you are. I don’t want to be alone again,” she whispered.

Sansa took a hand to her cheek, offered her a smile and vowed once more, “You will never be alone again. We will never be parted again.” A promise that she wouldn’t dare to break.

  
  
"Why didn't you come sooner?" Sansa asked as they broke their fast together.

Bran barely bothered to eat, and Jeyne slept in the mornings as she was unable to do so at night. Arya and the Blackfish had taken to the trainyard most hours of the day, so it had been made common for the two women to share meals.

Lady _Westerling_ had taken to placing the babe in her arms every chance she got, in Bran’s too when she found him in the room. She offered the little lord plenty to her sister, but though Arya’s eyes shone she did not allow herself to hold him.

Perhaps Lady Westerling did it to make them grow fond of the babe. A _smart_ thing to do, Baelish might have whispered in her ear, if he hadn’t died choking on his dinner table.

Jon was King for almost half a year, a hostage of the Targaryen Queen for most of it, she wanted _so dearly_ to believe. Sansa had been the Lady of Winterfell for six moons, ruling Princess for just as much. Only now had Jeyne Westerling come, with the Ser Blackfish leading the way.

When Winterfell was won and secure. While Sansa prepared for a war with an enemy she knew nothing about. When Jon was silent in the South. While she ruled the North she had freed, in the memory of her brother’s legacy. In the memory of the _Young Wolf_. In the face of Rickon’s death, of Jeyne’s fear, of Jon’s impatience.

"The matter of succession... "

Sansa only raised a brow.

"When you were married to Tyrion Lannister, when there was no word of your sister, Jon Snow was placed above you in the line of succession. To protect the North from Lannister hands," she explained, though she had the decency to look down in shame as she said it.

Sansa gave a hollow laugh, taking care not to upset the babe to whom she was giving pieces of bread softened in honeyed milk, her hands gentle, even if her smile was bitter.

Jeyne had feared what Jon Snow could do to the child of Robb Stark. A child who could take his place. She had no fear towards her. She was only a woman after all. Whose brother had sacrificed and pushed away from her rightful inheritance, that which was once the only thing keeping her alive.

"And who was witness to this? To my brother’s last will and testament?" she was eager to know, to make sense of it.

"Your Lady mother, Lady Maege Mormont, Lord Galbert, Lord Jason Mallister, and Greatjon Umber…”

Sansa nodded slowly. "All dead then." She shrugged and if Lady Jeyne was shocked by her cool demeanour she did not show it. "Not that it matters. Jon was made King without them to speak my brother’s will. Tell me Lady Westerling, did my mother rage, when my brother placed his father's bastard before his trueborn sisters? The sisters he had made vows to protect. One of them who was being beaten and humiliated for Northern Independence? Did my mother rage at this decision? Did the Riverlords that heard raged that a man without a drop of Tully blood would be given kingship over the Trident? I can only imagine-"

"He did not know..." Lady Jeyne tried to assure her softy, as if she were a child, though she desisted with it almost immediately. "Yes, your Lady mother was quite vexed."

Sansa gave her a tight smile. "Good. Someone who still cared about the pack. Robb was often forgetful," she pointed out, not intending to be unkind, it was simply the truth of it.

Sansa was old enough to accept that duty came over family often, moreover when one spoke of sisters and daughters.

Lady Jeyne took a deep breath and straightened in her seat. “There had always been rumours.” Sansa frowned. “In the Night’s Watch, he rose too high and far too quickly, there were many rumours he was Lannister bought,” Lady Jeyne mused, though she didn’t seem to give it much concern now, though Sansa could understand why she had then. Why she had not gone to the Night’s Watch with Robb’s heir, why she had kept to the Blackfish as he kept Riverrun in their name.

“They say he is the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros, Jon Snow, is that true?”

Sansa nodded slowing, refusing to picture him in her mind. “He is. As skilful with a sword as one can be.”

“They say… When news reached the Riverlands of the Battle of Bastards, they spoke of your brother drowning in a sea of men and there you were, ready to pull him ashore… Lady Stark, an image of red riding atop her white mare, with the strength of the Knights of the Vale at her back. Was that true?”

“Yes.”

She nodded gently. Her voice was no less soft as she said, “I was aware no one knew of the matter of succession. They were all dead…” She took a deep breath to keep her tears at bay and brought a hand to her throat. “They all died in the…So I couldn’t understand why he was King at first. I couldn’t understand, neither could Ser Blackfish, so I suppose I thought… that if I came here, with his child…” she looked towards the babe. “ _You_ , he couldn’t kill. The Vale supports you, you were – _are_ – the Lady Stark. But I was alone, if I were to arrive with the babe and if he called me a liar… if he… I couldn’t imagine what he could do to little Ed.”

Sansa shook her head vehemently. “Jon would never do such a thing.” She tried to ease her mind, she didn’t know him like Sansa did. “He would never do anything to Robb’s heir.”

The girl looked up and her eyes went through her. “Only to you then?”

Sansa controlled her own face at her words. Jeyne shook her head to deliver them both from the bitterness of the matter.

“And then Dragons came to the West. The Second Field of Fire, they are calling it,” she informed her, though Sansa knew already. “I thought he would be safer North, once again. With you. The daughter of Lady Catelyn.”

Sansa softened at her words. She softened at the gentle tone with which she said her mother’s name. Yet she was not a girl, and her armour was rarely put aside in the presence of strangers.

Had Jon been here. Had Jeyne come to him with Robb’s child, he might have been pushed to marry her. They bore no love for her, the woman that had stolen the Young Wolf’s wits, the woman who had cost him everything, but she had been his wife. They would love the child, for it was Robb’s, plain as day. He was Robb’s child and her nephew. So they might have pushed for a marriage between them, to consolidate Jon’s crown atop his head. That would have kept little Eddard the heir, the tension from Jon’s unknown mother gone, for the line of Winter Kings would carry on through a trueborn Stark. But now Jon had bowed to a Targaryen Queen. And things could never be the same.

Sansa bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood and nodded all the same. Focused on little Eddard’s chubby hands to regain her focus.

“I’m afraid that it is not in my power anymore to do so. We’ll have to meet my Lords and Ladies soon enough. They shall tell us their minds on the matter. They shall pass our sentence.”

Lady Westerling nodded and offered her a tight smile.

Sansa could only taste blood.

She had done her best to keep from his sight. He had allowed her this.

There was no doubt he too, didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t break his fast with them, having taken to training the farmers and villagers for the war that came. Took charge of organizing her northern armies the same way he took of the few dozen men he had brought with him from the riverlands, few as they may be, a welcomed addition. Though bitterly she was left to wonder how greater they might have been had he answered her call when she had sent for him.

The Blackfish had taken easily to Arya and her to him, Sansa was thankful for that. Even if some part of her was acutely aware of her incapacity to relate to most of her kin. Once, as a girl, she had entertained the thought that she might have been the Tully favourite, the same way Arya was the Stark one.

Aunt Lysa had shattered that dream.

Nevertheless, the Blackfish had not overstepped. And Sansa could find some relief in that. In truth, she was eager to find something that might make him favourable in her eyes once more, this man her mother had loved with all of her heart. This man her brother had trusted so dearly. He referred to her as Lady Stark. Every order he gave her men, little Eddard’s men… or were they still hers for a second longer? She could not tell.

Yet, every order he gave he ran over first with Lady Brienne who she made her commander in Jon’s absence, though now that he was here, no doubt was the Tully men best suited to the task. He eyed the Free Folk with suspicion built from years of tales and attacks and eagerly took to the table of Lord Royce and the Vale Lords that remained in Winterfell in anticipation for the war.

She could tell the exact moment he was made aware. The exact moment the Blackfish knew she was the one who killed Petyr Baelish. And from then forth she waited for the stream to come to a halt.

“ _I failed you_.”

“Many have, Ser,” she whispered in a resigned tone, stopping in her steps to face him.

He clenched his jaw and nodded slowly taking care of his surroundings, allowing her a moment to do so as well.

Sansa understood he had chosen this place carefully. Not her chamber, nor her solar, nowhere she could not run. He chose the battlements, where he could watch both entrances and none who could see them could hear what they spoke. And nevertheless, she could choose to walk away.

It nearly made her smile. That the Tullys knew the game better than the Starks, even if, often, they had chosen not to play. Chosen family over the game

He did not wish to make himself a threat to her, when so many other men had been. He did not wish to trap her or force his company upon her, and Sansa felt a reluctant assurance in that. Mayhap even comfort if she allowed herself such. Or perhaps this was no game at all, perhaps this was simply family, what being kin and sharing bonds of blood meant. Making one at ease. Making one feel safe in another’s presence.

“I won’t fail you again,” he vowed in a serious manner. Not with the solemnness Lord Royce would have, or the gruffness a northern man might have attached to it. And Sansa couldn’t help but understand why this had been the man every Tully child had clung to.

He didn’t offer her excuses. Didn’t give her reasons why he did not answer her call, why he refused her aid, as if it would ease the burden. And Sansa respected that, had no reason not to, it was refreshing in truth. How it differed from the way Petyr liked to weave his net to explain away his wrongdoings. Or the neglectful manner with which her father had given her a doll after killing Lady. There was honour to the way with which the Blackfish accepted his choice as just that – a choice. And the consequences that came with it. The lack of trust that weighed upon it. But still…

“The Freys are dead, you are aware.” No doubt he knew that, if not from word of mouth along the King’s road, then from Arya, stories she might have shared with him with much more ease than she might have shared them with her. Perhaps even with eagerness.

“Good riddance. May they make a steady home in the seven hells,” he growled under his breath.

“Lord Edmure-”

“ _Traitor_ ,” he spat, viciousness heavy on his tone, though his face seemed saddened by the word. He spoke unkindly of his nephew, of the closest he had to a son, though he believed his words, they burned him to say.

“A hostage,” she corrected. “I was one for many years. To different captors. Sang whatever tunes were required of me. To keep my life. To argue for my father’s. Uncle Edmure did the same, I’m sure. His Frey wife was pregnant, was she not?” she tried to argue for him, like hopefully someone had done for her when they all lived in those halls of Riverrun she had never seen, nor likely ever would. “Would you call me a traitor – _did you_ – with the same ease with which you call Lord Edmure thus?”

He shook his head vehemently, taking offence. “You were a child,” he excused in a fatherly tone. “You are a woman. You survived, that’s all that matters. What more could you do, my child? What more could be required of you?”

A man was still a man. Even if he was kin. A lesson harder to learn than others had been.

She wondered if he spoke this way to Arya. If Arya basked in the option to return to a simpler time when they were children and could only depend upon the words and sentences of their sires. Sansa wondered either it was different with Arya for she could carry a blade. Yet Catelyn Tully had carried no such thing, Sansa wondered how the Blackfish might have treated her when they reconnected. A place in time where she stood above him as a Lady of a great house, and not only his child niece. 

Sansa took a deep breath and offered a tight smile. “Nothing at all. What more could my uncle? Have you ever been a hostage, Ser? Have you ever had to choose? Between your family, your duty, your honour.”

He nodded slowly, taking in her features, those Tully features he shared with her.

“Aye, I have had to choose.” He watched her carefully before saying the words on his mind. “I chose not to marry, over my duty to my house, aye. I chose Lysa once, the poor girl she was, the miserable marriage chosen for her, the army that was bought with her. I chose my niece, over my brother as well.”

Sansa raised her chin and gripped her hands to keep her voice toneless – that he could understand a woman’s misfortune so well and yet having placed her where he did, left her feeling uncertain.

“And then you went to my Lady Mother, to my brother, left Lady Lysa in the Vale. Was it for honour, for duty, Ser?” When he did not answer she tilted her head to the side. “And then you choose Little Eddard.” _And refused me aid_ , was left unsaid.

He chuckled without mirth and stared her down with an intimacy they did not share. A familiarity on his eyes no one had taken to offer her for she had never allowed it. The Blackfish asked for no permission and stared her in the eyes, like any father or uncle would their child. It unnerved her.

A younger Sansa would have eagerly leapt to his arms, called him Uncle and asked him for guidance. Asked for stories of both her mother and her brother. A Sansa she no longer was would have spoken of Petyr. Would have asked both absolution as well as protection from the memory of him. The Sansa that stood before the Blackfish was a woman grown and in charge of her household, she would do no such thing, no matter how the Tully blood in her wished to be held by him.

He eyed her appreciatively, though there was a sadness to it. “You are just like her, you see. Your mother. It isn’t even how you look, though you are a Tully through and through,” he remarked with a bitter smirk. “It’s that measured way in which you speak. The chin held high. The steel on your spine. Those hands…” he smiled in thought looking at her, though he did not see _her_ “… she gripped them just like that when she wanted to argue but couldn’t. It pains me to look at you. It pains me to have failed you. It pains me that by the look of you, I haven’t ceased doing so yet. So speak my child, so I may be to you what I was gladly to you mother and would be so again for her children, each and every one.”

She was silent for a moment. Looked to him the same way he had looked upon her. His laughing eyes of deep blue, she wondered if her brother, any of them, might have grown to have those laughing lines had the Gods been kinder to Stark men.

“And what is that Ser?” she asked though she knew, she just wanted the words, the words of a blunt but kind man, that had delighted and comforted her mother, even her aunt, motherless girls, just like her and Arya were now.

“Kin. Father and uncle if you require so if you accept it. Shield and councillor. Shoulder and ear, for one always has need of more of those, and I am a good listener, my lady. But kin most of all, I know well how to be kin,” he told her easily enough.

Sansa nodded slowly and took a measured breath, for she had made the decision of what he could be for her the moment he arrived at Winterfell’s gates with Robb’s wife and child.

“There are things I want to ask you, Ser Brynden. The same way I am sure you are eager to ask others of me. Yet I think we will harm one another, we will cause each other grief and I have no time to mourn as of yet. I have to prepare the North for winter, for war and I would gladly take your council for it, as it is only right. Still, I have to make my nephew my Lord. I am the Lady of Winterfell for a bit longer before no doubt having to sell myself once more, for my duty to my household. So forgive me, if I cannot be kin when I have to come to terms with relinquishing my place once more and holding it for another.”

She had imagined he would take a step back with the force of her words, and yet he did no such thing, taking her by surprise. He nodded slowly, hands crossed behind his back, and took a step forward in their small battle.

“Grief already surrounds us, my child, why not ask the things we must?” he countered with. “You won for yourself a crown and yet you crowned another.” He raised a brow and Sansa could tell he wished to speak more of it, other names he might have more eagerly called him. “Why is that, might you tell me? Why you chose _him_ , who you and your sister call family, over honour and duty?”

Sansa narrowed her eyes but pushed back from the memory of Jon Snow.

“Northern men are still men. And Northern Queens are unheard of. I accepted Northern will, for peace, for duty, I accepted my father’s bastard as my King. He is a Stark, even if he is not a Tully. The same way I will accept my brother’s child as my Lord. It is no grave matter. I know my place, my lord, I am a Tully, if anything I am dutiful to the men who rule me, to the house I serve.”

She took great pleasure from the way her words soured his mood, from how uncomfortable his lack of knowledge from the things she had endured made him. All those stories from the Eyrie he wished to know, the stories from Kingslanding, Petyr and Lysa and everyone that had come before. Even Jon Snow.

“Riverrun is my home, the same way Winterfell is yours and I wanted it back, I was born there, and I would have gladly died there. Do you doubt me? That I would come here to take from you that which you won by right of conquest and blood? That I would raise men to rob you of your seat? Or that I would refuse you aid when I could freely give it? Tell me what betrayal you feel more keenly, and we shall go over it, make peace between us. Have I overstepped? Have I raised my voice louder than yours?” It was the knight that spoke to her now, not the uncle. A knight whose honour he believed had been questioned.

 _And yet when your quest to regain your home failed, you come to me for mine,_ she did not say it, though her blood screamed it, though she knew it was a lie planted there by Petyr from the place inside her mind.

“No, Ser, and yet you bring to me those who can. These are the truths of the world, Ser. My brother’s child will always come before me, with or without Riverrun, and so will come his mother.” She shrugged in spite of her courtesies. “Had you told me I fought for my nephew, no doubt the North would have rallied with a new strength for the Young Wolf’s child, in a way they did not rally for Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter,” she mused, more to herself for she could tell the Blackfish did not wish to argue with her, only make amends, it angered her further.

Inside her something raged, and she could not tell which offence was more grievous to her – that he had refused her aid or that he brought a woman to take the place she had so dearly wanted to make a home in.

Sansa would have prepared better had she known. Not been caught by surprise. Would not have allowed herself to become comfortable in the home of her youth, allowed herself to place roots once again upon the frozen grounds of Winterfell. Had Brynden Tully warned her of her nephew she would not have felt this uproot so much more keenly now that it came. She was a girl still, something easy to forget, when for so long she had been alone with only herself to contend with, even if surrounded.

Jon’s crown was easy to accept. No matter his title, Winterfell would always be hers as the trueborn daughter of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark. Had Bran taken his place as Lord, Sansa would have remained his heir, her place firmly in Winterfell’s grounds as her children would inherit it, since he was unable to sire them. Had Rickon survived, he had been a child still and he would have had need of her, and she would have lovingly placed herself beside him for as long as he required it of her. 

A nephew, with a living mother was quite different. Sansa once again became a pawn for her house.

“Tell me if we had lost the battle? If now I was a Bolton prisoner? The same as Rickon was? Did you consider it?” she argued further, not that it mattered, not truly, the battle was won, she simply could not argue that which the both of them desired the most.

“The Knights of the Vale are mighty men, well rested men, hungry for glory. They would have won, I was sure, and I was right,” his voice was heavy with certainty.

“And yet, Rickon still died.”

He clenched his jaw. “I was with your mother when she knew of his death, while she mourned your brothers. I never considered him alive, to be truthful with you. I considered it a ruse. The same way that girl was made to be Arya. Even you, for a time, I considered you dead. I fought for the kin I had beside me.”

She smiled bitterly. “Yet here he was. All of us scattered and no home to come back to. I cleaned his body and wounds. I prepared him for burial. For a moment he was alive to me, and to Jon.” She shook her head to keep her tone softer when she reminded herself he had nothing to say to her, that neither of them could save him now or then, that they had never stood any chance. Neither could they save her now.

“I wanted a home for you all to come to, my child. I wanted Riverrun for my niece’s children, you know that to be true, no matter the anger you might feel for me this moment.” She could not deny it, could not call it a lie, when she saw truth in his eyes.

“Now Winterfell becomes the home I built for us all, no matter the short time it might be such…” she whispered as she shook her head. “I am glad you and Arya are getting along, I am glad you can offer her kinship and that she can accept it.” Sansa was disappointed that she could still hear the bitterness in her own words. “I am glad you are here, truly. You will always have a place in my halls, wherever those might be once this war is done and we survive the ones that will no doubt follow. Until then, may we be kin to one another in silence, Ser Uncle, for that is all I can bear this moment it seems.”

She turned from him and it took her by surprise how her anger for a man she wanted so eagerly to hold on to ached in her chest.

“Lord Royce,” she called for the taller man, who was quick to take her side.

She was griping her hands forcefully, a nervous tick easy enough to hide in wintertime, she had thought. Petyr would have scolded her for it. Petyr wasn’t here anymore to do so.

“It appears that with the arrival of my nephew, it would be wise of me to consider my future,” she prompted, her eyes focused on his stern face.

He understood her immediately and spared her the words. She couldn’t have been more grateful if she tried.

“Should you wish to consider Lord Arryn as a possible husband, my Lady, we would be honoured for you to resume your place as the Lady of the Eyrie in a more permanent capacity, my Lady,” he offered her, his voice soft and earnest, as much as a man made for war could be.

“You would intercede on my behalf then? Among your fellow Lords?” she asked for clarity’s sake.

She needed all the assurance she could get during these times, and though Lord Yohn was Lord Protector, his voice wasn’t the only one that echoed in the Eyrie.

“There should be no need, my Lady. You are well loved up the Mountain, as you were a diligent Lady as Alayne Stone. And the debt we owe you… will never be forgotten and could never be repaid,” he assured her. “Lord Robyn has always been very fond of you, I see no issue that could arise from the marriage.”

She nodded slowly and took a deep breath.

“Thank you, my Lord. Your friendship is most appreciated,” she said with a small smile she barely had the strength to summon.

He stopped for a moment in front of her and seemed troubled as he tried to find words.

“The Lord is young, and I believe with some guidance and time, he should grow into an agreeable husband, Lady Stark,” he told her, in what Sansa believed was an effort to comfort her. She could barely remember the last time a man had attempted to comfort her without second intentions.

She offered him a tight smile though it was earnest. “I have no doubt, my Lord. Under you tutelage he shall grow into a capable and formidable Lord.”

He had a pitying look on his face. Not for Robyn, but for her. Sansa Stark who had tasted freedom for a moment. Who, if only for a moment, was the reigning Lady of Winterfell, the head of her household. Once again only a girl to be sold as a wife. Selling herself away before another could. It was pitying indeed.

And yet there was safety to be had in the arrangements she made. A safe haven to offer Jeyne. A home for Bran and Arya to come to, even Jon, should they require it of her. The Bloody Gate should her uncle desire to return to his posting there, were Uncle Edmure to refuse him entry in Riverrun. Should they all survive long enough to need somewhere to go, Sansa would have the Eyrie for them and for now that assurance had to be enough.

He silently offered her his arm to lead her to the meeting that would follow. She easily took to his side and wondered what Aunt Lysa might have thought that she would indeed take end up taking her place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The North knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark. And I am it's keeper. I know my duty, I know the will of my people. Better to die than kneel, yes, I know northern men. I am a Northern woman, though no doubt some might disagree."

"You believe this woman?" It was Lyanna Mormont who spoke first. It was always Lyanna Mormont who spoke first. The confidence that only a child could have dripping from her, as it once dripped from Arya.

Jeyne Westerling presented her case beautifully. Called forth the Lords she remembered, the ones still alive to recognize her as a Stark widow. Cried at Robb’s name, at the memory of riding to him to go to the Red Wedding. Showed little Eddard in all his Tully splendour. Ser Blackfish had been called forth as well, to attest to the identity of the child and of his mother.

Then her Lords had asked Lady Westerling to leave the Great Hall for a bit, so they might converse. A strange request to make to the one who should now be the Lady of Winterfell. Still, Sansa said none of this.

Sansa leaned forth on her father’s seat. "The child has my brother's look. As for Jeyne Westerling, it was you, my lords, and not I, who knew her. Would she lie by claiming the child a Stark when he is not so?" she asked them, distancing herself from this decision as much as she could. “Would Ser Brynden Tully?”

"She was a sweet girl... " Lord Manderly contemplated in his gruff voice while shaking his head. "I don't believe she would. And we have no right to question the Blackfish,” he was quick to add, paying his respects to the man who stoically remained at her side. “Nevertheless she is a girl. A Westerlander at that and not a man in these halls will be ruled by one, no matter how sweet they might appear to be. She knows nothing of the North, much less of Winterfell, she knows nothing of us. She has not fought for us, delivered the North with us, bled with us,” he rallied, his voice increasingly louder before he turned to her. “Is the Lady Stark opposed to continuing her duties as Lady of Winterfell, with her nephew under her charge and tutelage, as it is only right?"

She could feel Jeyne Poole’s eyes on her. Knew the look they would share were she able to look at the Lady of Whitefort without drawing attention.

"I am not, my lords," she said with a slight bow of the head, the humble Lady of Winterfell.

Arya stood in the back of the room eyebrow raised and Sansa refused to meet her eye.

"Then I see no reason why this should be an issue. Lady Stark has been steadfast in her duties, _unlike some_. I won't gamble the peace we have achieved for a westerlander bride I know nothing about," young Lord Cerwyn was quick to say, bowing his head to her in an effort to please his liege Lady.

“What say our allies? What says the Vale?” Lord Locke asked, brow raised, a curious look on his features.

Sansa tilted her head. Both the question and it’s words posed doubts. What had the Vale to say about the choice of liege lord for North? Nothing at all, the same as none in the North could argue if perhaps Harry Harding was better suited as Lord of Arryn than Sweet Robyn might be.

Yet it was the choice of wording that was interesting in truth. That spoke of his true question. _Our_ allies. As if the Vale rode to deliver the North from Bolton hands out of their own accord. As if seasoned man, made for war and nothing else, rode to free other kingdoms in the hope of alliances yet to be made _. No._ The knights of the Vale rode for _her_ , even if they had remained to fight a threat they deemed dangerous to them.

Still, while there were whispers, no one knew what had truly happened in the Eyrie, how deep their bonds were. And while the Vale’s presence was welcomed, in no manner had it been explained. Yet one thing was perfectly clear, made plainer still by the opportunity presented by Lord Locke’s question. Who would the knights of the Vale support if there was to be a conflict over the Eddard’s Stark’s regency?

Sansa supressed a smile as Lord Royce had no trouble voicing to her bannermen where the Vale stood on the matter. 

“We rode for the Lady Sansa Stark, my lords,” Lord Royce proclaimed, “we have remained in Winterfell for her and the threat we have been sworn resides North of the wall, a threat to all of these Seven Realms. We shall not break faith with the Lady of Winterfell.” He turned to her, with a slight bow of his head, to show his respect.

His meaning was clear. The Knights of the Vale stood for Sansa Stark, cousin of Lord Robyn Arryn, they stayed for the threat North, but they came and fought for _her_. There was no one who would fight for Jeyne Westerling. No other Stark they would prefer over her.

Perhaps it was the Knights of the Vale, Lord Royce’s confidant stance by her side. The way the Blackfish had surprised her by standing beside her even as he recounted the events in Riverrun for Lady Westerling.

Perhaps it was their disappointment in Jon, in his few words. Their confusion with Arya and her sharpness. The blank eyes of the three-eyed-raven, his disinterest in both the crown of winter and the seat of Winterfell. But they wanted her to keep her place. And perhaps she didn't have to run just now. Perhaps not at all.

In truth, with Lord Manderly and the Vale’s support, her position was made rather simple. Sansa exchanged a look with Lord Royce, a simple nod, and just like that their earlier conversation had been put to rest, if not forgotten.

“Why we are even arguing this is bloody beyond me. Robb Stark’s Seashell Queen has done her duty as a wife, keep her or send her away Lady Stark, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. No Northmen worthy of the name answers to a Westerlander,” Mors Umber said between drags of his ale and the sneer etched onto his face. Even if it was the opinion of a drunken oaf it was met with approval from many.

Sansa considered his words for a moment. Lady Westerling. Westerlander bride. Robb’s Seashell Queen. While a Queen not taking the Crown’s name was the usual practise, the lack of other titles was telling. The northern lords had unmade her as a Stark widow. Lady Jeyne had never worn the Stark name. None of these men had met her as Lady Stark. While a small thing, it was meaningful. Sansa was _the_ Lady Stark and Jeyne remained Lady Westerling, even if she were to take the regency of her boy. She would never be Lady Stark to these men, it suited Sansa’s predicament surprisingly well. It shamed Sansa most deeply that she could take joy from it.

"Certainly not now that the King Lady Mormont has chosen has betrayed us and once again we expect enemies at our doors," Lord Glover laughed scornfully, eager to bring the issue forth. “Stark men and their weakness for southern whores,” he spat.

Sansa raised from her seat for she knew her duty. “ _My Lord_ ,” she growled, “you may call Daenerys Targaryen whatever you wish, but you will respect your Lord’s mother and your late King’s wife, since he died for northern independence no matter his shortcomings.”

He clenched his jaw and bawled is hands into fists at being reprimanded by a woman, but nevertheless bowed his head to the Lady of Winterfell. “Your forgiveness, my Lady.”

Lady Lyanna scoffed, still enraged at his earlier words. "I was not the only one who rose for Jon Snow, Lord Glover."

"Aye, fools of us all who raised swords for a bastard Turncloak while Ned's dutiful daughter stood not a foot away!" Lady Lyessa Flint was quick to add, receiving an approving nod from Lord Manderly.

Sansa could not be the one to disagree, not when the letter with the insulting command burned in her pocket, when he had left it to her to tell them he had bent the knee, to bear the blunt of his betrayal, truth or not.

Lord Manderly cleared his throat. “With both this news and your agreement, my lords, I see no reason to keep this farse any longer. To deny and make concessions of what is rightfully ours. We have fought before, we will fight again for our independence if we must. Robb Stark’s heir has come. Lady Stark has proven herself to be more than equipped to be his regent, to lead us against this threat. Jon Snow is nearly silent in the South, demanding us to bend the knee to a Targaryen, to fight a threat none of us have seen. The North cannot be given away after all that we have fought, after all that we have lost, as if this boy can give away what we fought for, what our heirs and brothers died for. The solution is clear. I say, long live the King in the North, and Gods old and new protect our Lady of Winterfell, his regent!”

“You would betray your King, Lord Manderly?” Lady Mormont was quick to accuse him, all of her sharp edges.

“King? How can you claim Jon Snow King, while Robb Stark’s heir lives?” Lord Cerwyn asked of Lady Mormont, though Lord Manderly’s voice was higher.

“A king who has given the North is no King at all, little Lady Mormont,” he was quick to answer her, reminding her of her youth. “And were it not you who said, “ _I know no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark_ ”. There you have it. Eddard Stark. Or would you rather bend the knee to the Targaryen? Does your word mean that little?”

“We know not why he has bent the knee! If he was forced to write that letter!”

“Aye. I know nothing except the silence he gifts us with. Is that what you think a King does, my Lady? Leave the rule to another while going off to beg a Targaryen aid, while she burns her way across the East.”

“And are the tales of her true?” Lady Karstark asked, turning to Ser Brynden. “What say you Ser, who’ve come from the south and travelled the King’s road? Are the tales of this woman true?”

Brynden Tully’s voice was steady, but the danger of his words rang true, “I’ve heard of men burning inside their armour. I have heard of a Dragon crossing the skies burning what he found, men not expecting battle. I have heard of an Aegon the Conqueror come again that makes no offers of surrender first. Though I have also heard she gave some the chance to bend the knee or die by dragon fire, highborn and commoner alike. That is what I have heard, my lady.”

His words were swallowed by the unrest that followed. The shouts and growls echoed by her lords. The curses and vicious slander that while could not be clearly heard, were not hidden on their faces.

“How the North sacrificed to deliver the realm of that wretched house and yet the boy would have us offer our bended backs in submission to them once more, for what?! Better odds at defeating the dead? What do they matter if we are to be ruled by dragon fire?” Lord Locke followed with, exchanging a look with Lord Manderly, who once more nodded in approval catching Sansa’s eye

“A Targaryen comes to our door armed with three dragons, expecting subjugation for oaths Jon Snow has made in our name,” Lady Eddara pointed out with a courage she was not known for. “What can we do but bend, my lords?”

“She comes with more than Dragons. She comes with Unsullied and Dothraki. Have you heard stories of those Lady Eddara?” Jeyne Poole rose from her seat, surprising Sansa. “Dothraki who will expect treasure. Wives and slaves. How better to reward them than with highborn ladies such as yourself and the lands you come with. That’s what your bended knee means. Acceptance of her rulings. Are you prepared for that?”

Jeyne’s words brought fear to all unmarried women and rage to the men who had daughters and granddaughters to protect. To promise them to southern men and northern lords, for trade agreements, armies or lands was something they knew as the way of the world. But to be forced to give their precious girls to warlords, followed by vicious tales and terrifying customs, was something they could not accept while keeping their treasured honour.

“She also comes sided by both Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister, doubtfully either of them would have assured her the North’s bended knee would be an easy task to accomplish,” Sansa was quick remind them all the kinslayer and northern traitor that accompanied her, which only served to strengthen their will.

“She would dare to bring the likes of that traitor North?!” Lyanna Mormont spat at the mention of her cousin’s name.

“Most likely, Lady Mormont, she’s a foreign girl, what does she know of our laws, of honour, of duty, of the Olds Gods or even the New? What does she know of the North? Of the offenses our memory does not forget. What does she care of the crime of slavery when she calls herself a Khaleesi? When Dothraki screamers make her army, men who destroy cities and take slaves. Those she holds closest are sinners to the Old Gods, to bend the knee to her would be an offence to the Gods we pray to and every Godswood we hold dear,” Lady Lyessa told the young girl. “If we bend to her, we might as well burn every heartree in our keeps and be done with customs we have upheld for thousands of years.”

“The debt I owe Jon Snow cannot be repaid,” Lady Alys Karstark started saying, glancing at her wilding husband who stood behind her, “he is a good man, and no doubt his decision did not come easily to him, nevertheless I am the Lady of Karhold and I cannot in good conscious say it was the right one. I know my duty and I know what my ancestors would have claimed had they stood in my place today. The North cannot be allowed to fall back in southern hands, much less without a fight, be it against dragons or lions,” she said, surprising Sansa. “Better to die free, by fire or ice, than to relinquish everything our kin died for.”

Sansa looked between them all. One thing was remarkably clear to her. Not one of them would easily bend the knee and offer swords to a Targaryen. Eagerly they preferred to fight the undead alone and leave their fate to the old gods than submit to either dragons or lions. So be it.

_Sansa rose._

“I have heard you, my lords and ladies, and Northern will is clear. In the memory of those brave men and woman who died in the Red wedding, those brave people of ours who died in the Riverlands, who died in the West for Northern independence, for those of our kin who died to deliver the realm of Targaryen madmen, we shall not bend the knee to the Iron Throne or those you claim it.”

Her Lords clamoured in agreement, their desires emboldened by her words, branding swords in the air. Their wills might change, she knew. They might still stare upon the dragons and decide the risks were too great, burning a pitiful way to die, but these were the words they wanted to hear from her now.

“Nevertheless, this woman that comes, is no less Targaryen than her father and ancestors and antagonizing someone as temperamental as they have shown themselves to be is ill advised.” Those of her bannerman who did not wish for one more war eagerly agreed.

“She claims to be the Protector of the Realm, does she not? I propose, my lords, that we let her prove herself then. Let her come here and fight this threat to all of Westeros. And should she make demands of bended knees let us ask that she make them afterwards, dragons or not, Winter has come, and her army is made of southern slaves and warlords, let us see how they stand the cold first,” Sansa proposed, being met with enthusiasm from her bannermen. “The North is hard and cold, and has no mercy for dragons, should they decide to be a threat. She claims to be different than Cersei Lannister, she will have to prove it. Let us take opportunity in that.”

Sansa exchanged a nod with Lord Manderly, and a different kind of war began playing on her mind.

 _Long live King Eddard Stark,_ echoed through all of Winterfell, _Gods Old and New protect our Lady of Winterfell, his regent,_ while silently was still heard clearly.

As soon as Sansa crossed the threshold Lady Jeyne quickly placed the child in her arms, little Eddard grabbing easily onto her neck, having taken a liking to playing with her hair.

“What says the North?” and when her voice shook, as she squeezed the thin fabric of her sleeve between her fingers, Sansa pretended not to notice.

“You son has been made King, my lady. And I am to be his regent,” she told her, taking care of her reaction. Sansa tilted her head to the side. “Did you expect differently?”

Had Jeyne Westerling expected her to step down. Argue to make her the Lady of her own household. Of the home she had bled and fought for. Had she thought that she would give it away to a stranger and a stranger’s child?

She didn't mean it. She didn't. Kissed the top of the child's head soothingly as his mother almost winced at her words. She looked at the child and saw Robb. Looked at the child and saw Rickon, his body pierced by Bolton arrows. Saw Bran. Or what he used to be. And she loved this child. She did. With all her heart. But there were betrayals that ran deep in her heart. And truths that could not be ignored.

Lady Westerling shook her head vehemently and Sansa believed her, she did. "I did not presume..."

“l understand you named him your Lord because you feared… I am not a fool. And I wouldn’t impose him upon you. He doesn’t have to be a King or a prince or anything else. I just want him to be safe, and I didn’t think I could do that alone,” she confessed.

Sansa frowned, though she smiled quickly to mask it. Could not understand if this woman was simply naïve or pretending to be such. "You presumed something. Else you would have come sooner, or you wouldn’t have come at all, perhaps a safer choice, since I see enemies of the North on every front and at least one war we can’t escape from. We are sisters now, you and I, are we not? Speak to me then, _sister_ ," she prompted her.

Lady Westerling shook her head. “I was Queen for I was married to _my_ King. I was never meant to be such. I was raised to be a wife of a second son perhaps, a lower Lord. I was never made to be a Queen, much less of a realm such as the North. I understand that. I always understood that” she told her, as if it were a simple matter.

“No woman is,” Sansa confessed, a small smile on her lips that threatened to drain her whole.

Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell, not because she was Robb Stark's sister. She was Lady of Winterfell because she was Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully’s trueborn daughter. Fought for the North when no one had the will or strength to, freed Winterfell when no one did. Watched silently as they crowned her bastard brother instead and when they realized their mistake Sansa refused the crown when he showed himself incapable of holding it – for loyalty, whatever that meant in the Stark and Tully household.

For all their talk of _the North Remembers_ , they were still men and remembered as much as Southern men did. When Jon Snow's hand shook in his absence, it was her they turned to, not because she was his sister, but because she was the North’s Lady, she did her duty and she did it well. Now, with her brother’s heir come alive, it was ever so easy to reject Jon Snow, to place a crown on an infant’s head and ask her to take his hand, to hold him and keep him and be Queen of Winter in everything but name. Their pride as northern men protected, but independence secure in the hands of a woman they could put their faith on.

It was surprising in truth. But then again…

Lady Jeyne held her stare for a moment. “You are. Even a blind man could see it. You were built to rule,” she said with certainty in her voice. “You know what to say to them. When to speak and when to stay silent. You are most beloved by the North, they whisper it in the halls. I was not. Could never be as a westerlander. Had no right to be, I suppose.” She shrugged. “Perhaps he would be alive had he understood that as well. And for that, I beg your forgiveness.”

Sansa pursed her lips and stretched out her hand to her, a need to smooth the grief in the room overwhelming her.

“You are not to blame for the oaths my brother broke. He made that decision himself and his own actions were his downfall. Not yours. I don’t blame you, Lady Jeyne. Yet, I won’t pretend that I am not hurt by his choices, he was my dearest brother in whom I placed all my faith of being rescued. I cannot pretend that I found his judgment to not trade the Kingslayer for me right and true, though I understand it. So I suppose you must forgive me as well, for my bitterness.”

Lady Westerling nodded when she found nothing to answer her with. Instead she rose and got something from across the chamber. Her Lady mother’s chambers that she had offered them, while she kept to her father’s.

She placed on the table something wrapped in linen but did not uncover it.

“I fought my mother for it,” she told her with a heavy smile, her eyes upon it. “I wanted little Ed to have something of his father. Robb had it made for me, but it will fit a King.”

Sansa tensed at her words and switched little Eddard to her left side. Taking her right hand to push the linen away.

“ _The Crown of Winter_ ,” she whispered as her hand trembled slightly.

While Joffrey’s crown had been an ostentatious thing, this one resembled the crowns of old winter kings. A heavy crown. For no crown should be light, might the kings who wore it grow too sure in their steps. It was a Queen’s crown, but it was the North’s either way.

“Thank you,” Sansa told her sincerely, “for returning it to the North.”

She did not miss the way Jeyne Westerling’s eyes saddened at her words.

"Why didn't you defend him? In the council, why did you not speak for him?"

Sansa shut her eyes more forcefully if only for a moment of peace. If only for a second of not having to be second guessed in her own home. Sansa wondered how Arya might have reacted to Brynden Tully’s thoughts on Jon Snow, to Jeyne Westerling’s fears of Jon Snow. She wondered if Arya would have been this confrontational with either of them, of if her bare anger was something she reserved for her sister.

Then she took a deep breath and faced her, not bothering to give her the benefit of doubt considering her question, much the same as she did to her.

"Defend him from the truth you mean?"

Arya clenched her jaw but remained calm. Remained steady, it reminded Sansa of their lord father, it made her heart clench.

"He is our brother, " she settled with, focusing on simplifying the matter. As if the world was black and white and both of them hadn’t survived in the shades in between. As if Arya Stark, any Stark at all, could afford to be naïve.

"And they are our bannermen. And this is the North." Sansa raised her hands to illustrate her point, her mannerisms more provocative than she normally would have, but they were alone in her chambers with only Ghost laying on her bed to bear witness that, to each other, they behaved like children still. "And it is their freedom. It is ours. What would you have me do? Look into the child of our dead brother and say Northern Independence doesn't matter? That those lives that were lost don't matter? That Rickard and Brandon Stark are forgotten? That Mother, Robb and Rickon's deaths mean nothing? That independence means nothing and can be easily put aside?" she asked her truthfully wanting an answer.

"You have kept your position though," she drawled with a shrug, disappointment evident in her features.

Sansa titled her head to the side. "Should I have relinquished it? Claimed Jeyne Westerling who we know not as Lady of Winterfell, would that have pleased you better, sister?"

"As Robb's widow it was her right. Was it not? To be regent to her own son," she addressed the issue that had plagued Sansa ever since Lady Westerling had arrived, not hiding her smirk though she tried, eager to remember succession rights when it suited her, as if it were a game and not their lives.

Sansa nodded slowly, following a different approach than she might have chosen, had she been a girl.

“It’s true. Shall I offer it, to her? I can still summon the lords. Request that the lordship and regency be given to our brother’s westerlander widow. Of course, as Lady of our household she will be in charge of marriage arrangements," she was quick to point out, because it seemed to be an issue that slipped easily from her sister's mind in a way Sansa could never manage to forget. "Who do you think she will marry you to? Had Robb not been slayed we had been promised to Freys. Can you imagine?" Sansa made an effort to laugh, giving her ample time to regret her insinuation. “Of course Jeyne Westerling needs an army since she has none to protect her little King with once the Dragon Queen comes. Marrying me to the Vale would be the wisest decision, securing an alliance there and hoping to keep my favour. But what about you? A northern house perhaps… but then your children would threaten his claim, and bring no more men to aid, so perhaps not. A house from the riverlands would be more preferable, but few still have the military strength she requires… What do you think?” Sansa goaded her shamelessly.

Arya only raised a brow, refusing to engage with her bait, which Sansa commanded her for.

"You were always the lady, not I," she pointed out. “You always wanted to be a wife, it should prove to be no hardship to you, if that’s what you're so concerned about. And if it is little Eddard’s safety you fear, as Lady of the Vale you could easily be of assistance in that matter, perhaps more securely than as Lady of Winterfell. And I can always stay here and protect him.” She shrugged, playfully slipping the blade she carried at her waist between her fingers, as she took a seat on her bed near Ghost who did not bother to lift his head.

Sansa might have argued with her another day on her beliefs about her, yet it did not concern her this moment.

"Indeed, we were raised to be such wives, ladies of great houses. Do you believe that your disinterest in those skills in our youth make you any less a woman, with a woman's duty? Do you think anyone would have cared about those breeches you wear? That your skill with that blade will be of more use to this house than your ability to bear children?" Sansa was eager to know how their father had indulged Arya’s childhood dreams and neglected to inform her of the real world against her mother’s every attempt.

"I wouldn't have given them the choice," her voice was dangerous, but not enough to pose a threat to any Lord that took to mind having her as wife.

Sansa narrowed her eyes and gave her a careful look. She wondered all of the sudden if she had flowered already. She wouldn’t dare to ask. She acutely remembered all the blood that greeted her one dreadful morning in Kingslanding and how dearly she had wished for her mother. Sansa wondered who Arya would wish for. If Sansa could be that for her… she shook her head, knowing their grievances ran to deep this moment to even consider it.

"You wouldn't have been the first woman to have been dragged into her marriage chamber. The fact that you think it matters is concerning to me. Don’t you know what happened in these walls? Do you think it would have been different had Jeyne known how to fight? It made no more difference to Theon."

While Arya flinched at Jeyne’s name she did not answer her, and Sansa refused to use more of Jeyne’s misery as a lesson to her sister.

"Tell me, have I been neglectful of my duties? Have I been failing my lords? The people? I have heard no complains. But if you have, please, bring them to me. Say what you wish, I beg of you, so I can rectify it," she tried again.

Arya rolled her eyes, but put the blade away, bored at her own antics, it seemed.

"You are a perfect lady, no one would argue otherwise. You know that is not what I mean."

“Then what is it that you mean? My position protects yours and there is no denying that. And I will not step down, nor will I be made to feel ashamed that I am not eager to do so. It is no shame that I do not want to leave my home. Tell me. What is it that you want from me, Arya?” she asked wearily once more, her voice softer.

Arya frowned at her change of tone, clearly uncomfortable.

" _I want you to be loyal_ ," she threw plainly at her, in way of an answer that would never come.

Sansa nodded slowly, suppressed a laugh and raised a brow. " _Loyal?_ To whom Arya?"

"To this family, " she told her, not unkindly, but not warmly either. The blank face of a perpetually angry Stark. The sentiment seemed preposterous to her.

"The same way you are loyal to me? By all accounts I am the head of this household since Bran relinquished his rights and yet are you loyal to me?" she wondered softly. "You come here waiting to see _him_ upon a throne, I won. You came for a brother who wished to save you, when it was I who rallied the men. You mistrust me though I am the one who keeps this house standing. Though I am the reason you have a home to come back to. Where is your loyalty to me then? Am I not a Stark? Am I lesser than Jon in your heart?"

She didn't need to hear the words to know the truth of her sister's heart. It did not matter, she told herself. She had Jeyne. And she had Bran, in a way, though silently he stood with her, or at least not against her. A small family but better than she had had for years.

"Had father been in my place, had Robb, you would have been wedded or at least promised to a lord of their choosing, no matter how much wolf blood there is in you," she didn't allow her to argue, "and yet I have done no such thing. I have neither asked nor demanded anything of you and still you persist with this never-ending suspicion. It is not my loyalty which hangs in the balance it is yours. And you do not see it. "

Arya clenched her jaw but held her chin high, refusing to step down in her indignation.

"Why did you kill Littlefinger?" her voice was solemn as if this was her trial.

Sansa wondered almost amusedly if it could end in an execution.

She refused to allow it. She placed her hands upon the table and became the Lady of Winterfell all at once.

“That you would want to know what came of me in the years we were parted is one thing. To demand seeing and poking at my scars is quite another. Something I would never demand from you, though I have seen the bloody clothes you brought with you and heard you whisper names in your sleep. We will be kind to one another Arya, and if we cannot be so today, then I advise that you return to your training, while I return to my ledgers.”

Her little sister seemed chastised, but there was a fire in her that would not mellow this day. Nevertheless she was not a fool and knew she could not goad her into answering.

“Very well, I shall join our uncle in the training yard then,” she informed her with a smirk, knowing perfectly how sharply it would land.

“A good day to you, sister,” she wished her with a sour smile.

"You and Arya have quarrelled again," Jeyne noted as she entered the chamber.

"How can you tell," Sansa asked almost amused, though she felt exhausted.

"She looked chastised leaving your chambers and you look regretful. And after the disavowing of Jon Snow, it was to be expected, I suppose." She shrugged as she sat at the table.

"We see each other as children still. It's hard. And I suppose it's harder for her. I have you here and something to do, a task and purpose. And for the first time she finds herself in Winterfell without Jon, or those who always showed her favour. Bran is far too deep into his mind to offer her comfort. But there's always the Blackfish I suppose."

Jeyne frowned. "She seems perfectly at ease in the training yard..."

Sansa shook her head. "She's uneasy. She wants to know what happened in the Eyrie, in Kingslanding, the same as Brynden Tully. They itch to know how I survived and what I had to sacrifice for it. They want to know everything."

"And might you not share it with them? You shared it with me," she spoke softly, offering her hand for Sansa to hold.

And how easy it had been. How easy spilling all those secrets, all those tragedies and shortcomings had been to Jeyne. How they held each other and whispered all their terrible stories. How there was not a drop of judgment, an inkling of shame towards one another. How they absolved each other, cleaned each other’s tears, how they became those young, innocent girls they had been at Winterfell once again in their embrace.

"It's different. Stark and Tully and their honour. Whatever honour I had left I lost in the Eyrie and I do not have the will to be judged by those who did not share those trials with me. Arya was always..." Sansa sighed. " _So_ certain. Of what was right and what was wrong. No matter the consequences. But I always payed the consequences, I was always made aware of them, my wolf died for what Arya deemed right and she was... Right, I mean. Joffrey was cruel, but he was crown prince and... " Sansa shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. Lady is dead. But the issue remains that I do not know Arya's mind, even if she stands as my sister, even as I love her, I won't throw myself at her judgment, nor the Blackfish’s. Bran knows. You know. Jon... Understands. It's enough for now," Sansa assured her.

It wasn’t that she didn’t crave for the rest of her kin’s understanding, she did. It was that it reviled her that she would have to ask for it. She would have to lay herself bare once more, show her bruises and aches and ask for forgiveness. And Sansa feared she would not receive it.

With Jon it had been different. They had been the only Starks alive then. It had been easy to tell him, not as much as it had been to Jeyne and not nearly as detailed, but she had told him what happened, watched as angered filled his features, as he cursed their names and promised no one would ever harm her again. An empty promise, she knew, but it had been so good to hear it from a Stark face. So lovely to hear it from his lips. Then Bran knew without being told and she had been content to bury the subject. It seemed almost impossible now.

“It doesn’t matter this moment Jeyne. We have more important subjects to discuss.”

Jeyne smiled then. “Yes. It appears the North was wise in their ruling, righting a wrong by giving you your rightful place.”

“We mustn’t get too comfortable. I have no doubt if it comes to a war against these southern threats my lack of battle experience will come into question by my senior lords, perhaps Mors Umber and Lord Glover,” Sansa mused.

“A drunken fool and a bitter man, unliked by all,” Jeyne noted, her head tilted to the sight in thought. “And those who stand for you now, far surpass those made uncomfortable by your sex,” she reminded her.

It wasn’t so much those who were against her that concerned her, while they would prefer a man over her, they wanted independence just as much and with Jon’s decision she was the Stark able to protect it. It was those who would rather kneel and avoid even a hint of a fight that could become a problem.

“Indeed, nevertheless, I will ask for my Uncle Bryden to stand as commander of my troops, since we can no longer count on Jon’s position. He’s well-liked by them all. You did well to remind them of the Dothraki, let no one forget that while she claims to free slaves, the other half of her army is made by slavers,” Sansa pointed out, trying to recall in her mind all of the unmarried highborn ladies in the North that would fear those marriages the Dragon Queen would no doubt propose to stabilize her rule. Or Tyrion if she wasn’t clever enough to do so on her own.

“It’s best not to let them forget that what they allowed to be done to me can very easily come to their daughters and themselves,” her tone was grave, and Sansa nodded solemnly. “It is amusing though…” she tried to jest, “how they all become silent when I speak.”

Sansa smiled at the hint of pride in her voice. “They fear you, Jeyne dearest, the Lady of Whitefort and the Regent’s favourite. They are aware of their misgivings, even if they like to ignore them.” Sansa squeezed her hand gently. "I’ll have to invite at least one of the Manderly sisters to join you as my ladies in waiting now."

As Regent of the North, as Lady of Winterfell, she had to form a court. And ladies in waiting made marvellous spies. She wished for Myranda Royce. If only she could have her here, she would have been a welcomed addition. But the Manderly girls would do well to show Lord Manderly her favour for his loyalty.

"Wynafred is the calmer one," Jeyne recalled.

"Wynafred will most likely be the heir. Wylla, however louder, is a loyal one, to her core. And she'll stay with us after the war. Wynafred would have to return to White Harbor."

There was no need to express that these plans only mattered if they lived. If they survived the war. Both Jeyne and Sansa were clearly aware of the odds they faced. Nevertheless plans had to be made for every outcome. Petyr had taught her that and failed doing so.

"Lord Royce will have to be thanked of course, for his loyalty to you."

Sansa nodded. "Eddara Tallhart will need a husband, a second son of House Royce will do very well. They are comely. And without a father to guide her, the duty to arrange for suitable marriage candidates will fall to me as her liege lady."

"The Royces are a great house, she will be honoured, it will suit her better than a northern Lord."

A northern lord would more easily take her place, as ruling Lady of her own house. Sansa agreed. But only after the war. However loyal Lord Royce was, Sansa would like all his bonds to the North to fall solely with the Starks for the time being. It would not do them well to divide their loyalties when war came and an alliance between the North and the Vale might once again be needed against a Targaryen.

"He has betrayed you then," his words bore no judgment, a simple statement. She raised a brow though she did not turn to him as he took his place walking beside her at a distance beyond what courtesy demanded.

"Jon did what he thought best. Though misguided. Stark men usually are. Good intentions rule them, both my father and brother are proof of that. He wished to save the North, he bent to someone he thought worthy of it, or was forced to, which seems more likely to me, but alas. Either way, we will be prepared." Her tone was even, she had no anger to spare.

Until further notice she would take his every actions from besides the Targaryen Queen as those of a hostage. There was no need to pass judgment while the crime was still undecided. And he was her family, he deserved from her the benefit of her doubt, though she could only spare him from so much of the North's judgment.

“Yet,” she sighed. “On the chance that he has, and once again the North fights for independence, would you take on the role of my commander? Like you did with Robb?” She did not think he would deny it of her, not Brynden Tully who had fought the Lannisters even without a King.

The Blackfish had a smirk on his face. "You will not bend." It was not a question.

"I am the Lady of Winterfell, I am the princess regent of King Eddard Stark. I have no authority to bend," she reminded him though she doubted his forgetfulness.

But she would not. Lyanna Stark was taken from her kin to die alone in Dorne, because of Targaryen lunacy. Brandon and Rickard Stark died demanding justice from a Targaryen mad man. Mother had her throat slashed on her brother’s wedding feast, her naked body thrown into a river, for Northern Independence. Robb had his wolf’s head sewed into his neck, for Northern Independence. She was beaten and undressed in Kingslanding for Northern Independence. Jeyne was brutalized, Rickon bled to death on northern soil in front of her eyes. _No._ Sansa Stark would not be the one to bend. Would not allow for Stark deaths to be meaningless. Northern people’s suffering to have been without purpose.

Sansa had been prepared to die many times before. In Kingslanding. In the Eyrie. If she were to die for this it would be a welcomed death and she would meet them in the afterlife, having fulfilled both her duty and kept her honour. Whatever was left of it.

He scoffed, amused at her choice of words perhaps. "Even if you weren't, you would not bend, would you? Rather die than kneel."

There was a smile playing on his lips as he spoke, something alike pride in his voice, the sound seemed foreign to her. Reminded her only of her days with her mother. Of playing the harp, of embroidering wolves and dragonflies. She wondered why no one ever asked her to embroider trouts.

She turned to him because of it.

"The North knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark. And I am it's keeper. I know my duty, I know the will of my people. Better to die than kneel, yes, I know northern men. I am a Northern woman, though no doubt some might disagree."

He scoffed but didn't argue with her. “I once told the Kingslayer that while I lived the war wasn’t over. We are the same,” he noted with a laugh and Sansa refused to let herself enjoy it, to be claimed by kin. "The riverlands will turn to you, once this war passes, I’m sure."

Sansa shook her head. " _If_ , it passes. The riverlands are far too weak to take sides. And the riverlands have a Lord of their own. Uncle Edmure is alive at Riverrun, even if he is silent."

"Aye, it's true. But they would gladly turn to you, silently as it may be. They bear no love towards Lannisters and the memory of dragon fire never fades. She comes prepared for war. What say you of the imp? Can he lead her war?"

"Anyone can lead a war fought with fire. She will have plenty of ash to rule over. And no men that would bend to an Aegon the conqueror come again with a kinslayer by her side. She brings Dothraki as well, unsullied. All unprepared for winter, a sure part of them will die on their journey here no doubt."

"You think the boy counts on it?" he wondered, in thought.

In truth she could not say, only hope.

"Perhaps. It's the dragon glass what was always needed, as far as he and the free folk have made me aware."

"He has not spoken to you of this?" he inquired, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

She did not answer but he heard her all the same. Stark men saw Tully women as frail little things. _What do you see uncle?_ She wished to ask.

"What of Cersei Lannister? She claims to the winds your hand in her child's slaying. Will she come for you, you think?" he asked simply, but there was a question there he itched to know but would not ask. It amused her, how different it was from Arya’s earlier tactics.

Sansa had decided not to send Brienne to the meeting, whatever knowledge having her there might accomplish would be made null and void should the Dragon Queen decide not to come North now they had a new King, keep Jon to herself as hostage a while longer. Sansa had to protect him, in the ways she could. Besides, the element of surprise could be helpful to learn further of the woman’s character.

"The Queen is far too clever to invade the North in winter. She did summon me to a meeting in Kingslanding, one can only wonder what Jon and the Dragon Queen think that particular affair with Cersei might accomplish.” Sansa rolled her eyes, eager to change the subject. "Do you have a better cloak uncle?" she wondered, taking a look at the thin cloth upon his shoulders.

He frowned at her question and took a glance at himself, chuckling. "I had little time to arrange for supplies, much else clothes, leaving Riverrun. Worry not, my armour is warm enough, I shan't fail you on account of my frail old body against the cold," he laughed to himself, but took a step closer to her as they walked, emboldened by her concern.

Sansa would have to make him a cloak, her mother would have done the same, and she could not bear to think of him being cold as he led her men. She would embroider a trout or another if she had some spare time. Like she had done the Stark direwolf to Jon.

"What do you think of Lady Westerling, truly?" she asked, as they passed an empty corridor.

"A simple girl from a smaller house, whose biggest accomplishment was to tend to a King made blind by grief. She's a sweet thing. Her mother was shrewd, though. That one would have been a bigger concern. Jeyne will behave," he assured her.

Sansa took a deep breath. "We hope."

"These are your men, your people, they answer to you. She has no one to support her, should she challenge you for regency. Not when they were the ones that argued for you. Not when the Vale makes clear their favour. It’s a hard thing to be liked, more so when one is liked by more than one realm. Only a blind man would think better to trade a well-loved Tully and Stark, by a Westerling with nothing to her name," he argued. “Besides-” he smirked rather proudly “- Manderly, and all those who come with him, are in your pocket.”

She neither denied nor agreed to his keen assessment of the loyalties she had acquired during these moons alone she had spent in Winterfell, lordless lands she had given, disputes she had resolved in favour of those she found more amenable. Loyalties that had been made clear this day. Though she was not a fool to count on them everlastingly. She could not make the mistakes of those who came before her.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they will disagree with me and she will become more agreeable with time, the _sweet_ girl. The Boltons were loyal too once," she remarked.

"She's from the West still. Not one of them could forget, not when their kin died for the mistake of it. Yet, us Tullys are a _sour, suspicious lot,_ “he remarked with a smirk. “Trusting a stranger has never done anyone good.”

"Indeed," she answered with a small smile, emboldened by his approval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who commented on the first chapter, it means so much to me!
> 
> The Blackfish is slowly building trust with Sansa, the best he knows how to.  
> Arya and Sansa will eventually solve this “childish” mistrust they have between them, although slowly.  
> Since Sansa has not seen Jon with the Dragon Queen and without Littlefinger in the way, I think she most likely would trust he was simply being held as hostage, the same as she was in Kingslanding, but she also serves the North and it’s interests so I find it hard to believe she would argue for the North to bend the knee specially in the political climate I showed here, which this is only the begining of.
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For while war rages on, you become what you were taught to be, fight with the weapons seared into you, all those weapons that only seem to draw you away from what you crave the most…” Bran sighed and shook his head while her throat filled with an agony she had no place to put down as his voice turned grave. “While war rages on, each and every one of us will be what the Gods command of us, require of us, force onto us. Starks of Winterfell that we are and all those who serve us, are ruined by us, die for us and will continue to do so. Starks and the loyalty we inspire.”

Sansa kneeled in front of him on the snow. Kneeled in front of her brother, Brandon Stark with whom she had shared all those songs and tales of knightly valour. Tales of conquest. Tales of defeat. He had dreamed of being a knight and she had dreamed of…. She could barely remember anymore. Perhaps being saved by one. _Yes_. She had dreamed of being saved most of all.

Sansa Stark kneeled for her brother, knowing that she kneeled in front of the three-eyed-raven.

She looked over him carefully, like she so often did. Looking for a crack. Searching for the sweet and well-loved boy she remembered from her youth, the one that had been replaced by this creature of tales. And still, knowing this, knowing that he was only half of her brother, half of Bran, when she looked upon his thick auburn hair and deep eyes of Tully blue, she could only wonder how one could love and treasure so keenly someone they barely knew anymore. She loved him so dearly, this man she knew not at all. This creature that had taken part of his soul.

“If you are under the impression I can read your thoughts, you find yourself mistaken,” Bran told her, after a great deal of silence.

Sansa smiled softly and looked away at the face carved upon the tree, placed her hands above her dark blue skirts that once belonged to her mother, smoothing them down for a moment.

“You and I are so often in silence,” she countered with.

Sansa had learned to treasure it. The comfortable silence. Knowing someone would not leave just because she no longer had the capacity in herself to entertain. No harp to play, or poems to read. No songs to sing, or jests to tell.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, and yet you have never kneeled to me, Lady of the North, keeper of Winterfell,” he called her with an amused tone. “You want to ask something. So ask, sister.”

“Has the Blackfish come to you? Offered familiar bonds and oaths of protection and so forth?” she asked for curiosity’s sake, an effort to ignore the names he had called her.

Sansa wondered if all the Tully children would find a home with the Blackfish except for her. She wished to know why it bothered her still, why deep within her she wanted to be forgiven and claimed as a daughter by those who would want nothing more from her than keep to her.

Though she had wanted to know this, it was not truly what she wished to ask. Bran was no doubt aware of this and yet indulged her all the same which she took as a good sign.

“Indeed he has tried, and the _black goat_ of House Tully is a man with resolve,” he laughed at his own jape, “but I have no need of oaths of protection from him and not many can stand that which I am.”

“You’re Bran, still,” she argued, leaning forward and taking his cold hand in hers.

He focused his eyes on her this time, it chilled her bones.

“It’s sweet indeed, how hard you try to convince yourself of this. How you cling to whatever is left, how you look at something broken and do not refuse to love it. How dearly you wish to make a home to us all, to tend to all these bruises and hold all the pieces that remain of us together. How, wherever you go, you try to build what was Winterfell to us from snow, and rubble and perhaps one day ash. And yet you, as well as I, cannot. Can you? For while war rages on, you become what you were taught to be, fight with the weapons seared into you, all those weapons that only seem to draw you away from what you crave the most…” He sighed and shook his head while her throat filled with an agony she had no place to put down as his voice turned grave. “While war rages on, each and every one of us will be what the Gods command of us, require of us, force onto us. Starks of Winterfell that we are and all those who serve us, are ruined by us, die for us and will continue to do so. _Starks and the loyalty we inspire_.”

“Have many died for you Bran?” she asked but she knew the answer. She knew the broken look of Lady Meera Reed as he sent her away from Winterfell, brotherless. As Bran stood there, wolf less, just like her. The lost stare, she wondered just how many people had died in front of his eyes and whose faces he saw when he closed them. “To bring you here, to Winterfell, to me.”

“You once told me the demons in the dark couldn’t touch me if I hid under my blanket,” and his voice sounded so much like Bran that she wanted to hold him close to her and never let go, “how wrong we both found that to be. Did we not, sister? The demons are everywhere and the people who died to keep them away from us are summoned every time we close our eyes. How many more will die for us, do you think? How many more until we can’t survive their loss? How many more until they find we are not worth dying for? It shan’t be anytime soon I assure you. We shall drink their sacrifices like honey while we hide our own so no one can pity us. What do you think is better? Dying or living like this? Can you carry the burden of being _the_ Stark of Winterfell, Sansa? That’s what you are now. After you shall tell me if it was worse being the key to the North, we shall grieve those stories together, I hope. I hope we live to grieve together, that we one day might have the time. If only for a moment. I should like to share this weight, sister.”

Sansa took care not to blink so she wouldn’t shed any tears. She had not the time for it, he spoke true.

Eddard Stark. Catelyn Tully. Robb Stark. Rickon Stark. _Dead. Buried._ _Lost_.

Septa Mordane. Jory Cassel. Joffrey Baratheon. Ser Dontos. Shae. Lysa Tully. Petyr Baelish. _Jeyne Poole._ And all the ones whose names she did not even know, who had died for her, for knowing her, for being jealous of her, for wanting to protect her, for wanting to harm her.

Bran only smiled for a moment as she took her hands away from him, that eerie smile of his that made his face unrecognizable to her. She wondered what bothered her more, among so many things she could choose from. The cold wetness of the snow on her skirts. The never-ending trail of fear, always thumping. Once, twice, once again, on the back of her throat, on the hollow of her chest. One threat resolved. Another on its way. Another threat disappearing. Another creating itself from the ash.

Or maybe it was the hunger. The hunger that never left. For freedom. For safety. For honour. For love. Or was it to be known by this strange creature with her brother’s face? That called forth her fears and regrets, that told her more suffering was to come and yet would not allow her to prepare for it.

“You are afraid,” he noticed. “Good. Many have been those who fell for not noticing how swift the fall could be. _Chaos is not a pit. Chaos is a ladder_.” He sounded so much like Petyr, Sansa held herself tighter.

“And should I fall?” she wondered who, if any, would fall with her. What would be the price of her failings this time. If it could be bearable.

“Winterfell will fall with you.”

“That does not bring me comfort,” she told him, even if it did not matter.

“Why should it not? How many times have you readied yourself to fall alone, why shall it not bring you comfort that others would take the fall with you? _For you._ You are a Queen now, in everything but name, sister. There are those who carry your banners for the shade you provide them. Those who carry them for the honour you bring them. You fight better when you have something to protect. When you have something to lose. So be it, the North is yours to protect. Our family, both living and dead, _yours_ , Sansa Tully Stark.”

“All this weight Bran? You place it upon my back and expect it not to crush me.”

He laughed then. Hollow and terrible, it echoed in the Godswood.

“I? I place nothing that was not already there. You raised an army, now it serves you. You served a realm, now it depends on you. It was not placed on your back, you were chosen to carry it. They could have chosen others. They could have kept those they had chosen before you.” He shrugged. “You can refuse them still. If you wish. If you think someone else more suited to the burden. More able to the task. Point them and we shall see what comes of it if you wish it so. Yet, you know your duty, Tully that you are, do you wish to refuse it? Will you stray from me sister, from the duties we share? I, that have been swallowed by mine. Would you leave me all alone? Would you abandon me, Sansa? My sister.”

She took to heart his words, his mournful tone, raised her chin in way of answer and he smiled, almost proudly.

“There will come a great many deal of people to these halls of ours. Traitors and Kinslayers. Conquerors, survivors and players. I have no need to warn you of this, for I know of your heart and your fears, your skills and your weapons. Already you armour yourself so well against the coming storms… strengthen those bindings of yours, my sister. For when the Dragons come only those made for winter and by them beloved survive.”

Sansa straightened her spine at last. "Dragons come. And no courtesies of mine will deliver us from them."

He shrugged, unconcerned, it did not ease her mind. "Perhaps not. But lies? Lies have held these seven realms together. Lies have made peace a tangible thing. Lies have secured and endured weights that honour never could bear."

She clenched her jaw and shook her head, though she did not doubt his words, nor could she disagree with the use of them, not when lies had saved her. Not when a liar was what she had been turned into for survival.

“I need you Bran. Do you understand? I need you. I can play the game with all my might, but dragons are still dragons and I have only my words. One slip and Winterfell can become ash. One slip and we're dead. I can deal with men if luck is on our side, I cannot deal with three dragons alone.” Not alive at least.

“ _Two_ ,” he corrected, making Sansa take a deep breath with the amount of weight that lifted from her chest.

“Truly?” Sansa asked him with a smile she could not hide, he nodded solemnly. “How? When? I know there are things you cannot tell me. Stories you cannot share. But there is more than one threat coming to Winterfell and whatever information you can spare me, whatever stories you might share with your sister…. It already happened, surely there could be no issue if you told me,” she almost pleaded, though she knew it would not make a difference if he decided he could not say.

“A wight hunt. To bring Cersei proof of the threat, or so it was told.”

Stupid. Reckless. Useless. He could have died. And for what? Trying to argue for an alliance that would never come. She had warned him, she had warned him of Cersei, she had warned him of Stark mistakes, she had warned him of the game.

“The Targaryen queen lost a dragon to the Night King to save his life. Rather romantic, one could say. Now the wall will melt, Uncle Benjen is dead and should the North fall, there will be no place to hide from the dangers that come.”

Sansa jaw clenched and she swallowed harshly.

Another Stark death. Another Stark foolishness. She could barely remember Uncle Benjen. In truth, she hadn’t even considered him. How shameful. She had not the time to cast him a thought, much less mourn him as kin should be mourned. How shameful indeed that she could barely be concerned with it at all.

“Does she love him?”

The knowledge of the Dragon Queen’s heart was what truly concerned her, what truly made thoughts overwhelm her mind and push her forward. _That_ was what told her that whatever dignity she had left was lost in the Eyrie and she could not hope to regain it, least of all now. What would her father think? Would he have been able to look upon her? Would he have been able to love her, as she was now… this cold woman whose purpose was to play the game forced onto her. A game where he had made her a pawn, once upon a time in Kingslanding, whether he knew it or not.

He shrugged. “As much as a dragon knows how to love.”

Prince Rhaegar wanted Lady Lyanna and how the seven realms had bled for it. Dragons and what they deemed theirs. What they would lose for it. What they would risk for it. Two living children and a perfect wife. Seven Realms. _One dragon._ She could use this knowledge. She could wage war with it.

“Does _he_ love her?”

All this time she had convinced herself he was a hostage. All this time she had trusted he would not make the mistakes of those who came before him. All this time she had lied to herself. She had protected her heart. Her heart didn’t matter now, not when her duty was elsewhere.

He looked at her then and smirked, in that strange way of his, she had taught herself not to fear.

“Were I to tell you yes, would it make a difference? Would your need to make all those plans of yours cease all together?” he tilted his head to the side, Tully-blue eyes piercing her soul. “Would you risk the North to protect Jon Snow’s heart? Mother’s sacrifice? Robb’s legacy? Stark deaths?”

“No.”

Was Jon’s heart more important than the North’s freedom? Mother, Robb, Rickon’s deaths? Rickard and Brandon Stark? _No._ Would she risk losing Jon for the North’s freedom? That question haunted her. That she kept hoping she wouldn’t have to ask, that she risked this unanswered question, that she refused to consider it, the alternatives, that she refused to plan for his actions told her what she needed to know of her heart. Let him hate her if he must. She would make sure he lived for it, even if against his will.

“Then you have your answer,” he told her simply.

Sansa gave him a solemn nod, taking a hand to her throat. “When they come, I will become a liar, once more. I will give away whatever of my honour is left to appease the mortal enemies my words can conquer or harm. I will play my part in these wars. Fulfil my duty to the North and my kin, putting aside every shred of honour and dignity. Is that suitable, brother?”

“Aye, and the mummers farce carries on. We must all do our duty.”

Sansa had a bitter taste on her tongue, but she pushed herself to smile all the same. “And what is your part, brother, if I may know?”

“I'll concern myself with the dragon of ice and you shall concern yourself with those of fire, for the time being.”

She took a deep breath and nodded.

"What is the three eyed raven, tell me Bran," she almost demanded. Almost.

"A greenseer and a skinchanger. A storyteller, a dreamer. A keeper of tales, of prophecies. One who knows secrets. One who is buried beneath them." He smiled. “We are not so different you and I, we never were.”

A story. A prophecy. A secret. Prophecies were meaningless, secrets she had enough of her own. Stories… so often were they lies.

"Might you tell me of your dreams then?" she hoped for.

" _Little bird. Little dove_ ,” it wasn’t Bran who spoke, not really, it was another voice all together, as he called her what some of her nightmares once had. “In my dreams I fly."

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, plans itching in her mind. "And could you fly a dragon?"

Brandon Tully Stark smiled.

“Lord Manderly,” she welcomed him offering him her hand.

“My Lady Stark,” he bowed to kiss it before taking the seat across from her.

“As my nephew’s Regent, and with the wars that come, nothing seems as important to me as to take experienced and intelligent men such as yourself as my councillors,” Sansa prompted, offering the position he coveted as he argued for her regency.

“It would be my honour to serve the North and its _ruler_ ,” he told her, his inflection calling to question whom he was referring to. She found it most interesting.

“I have no doubt if it comes to a war against these southern threats my lack of battle experience will come into question by my senior lords, Mors Umber and Lord Glover…” she mused as she traced her fingers over one of the pieces used to symbolize the Dragon Queen’s forces on the board.

“Your brother Robb had no battle experience as well, yet he sure had no issue beating seasoned commanders on the battlefield,” he argued for her easily enough.

The thing about House Manderly was that they were still southern at heart and Sansa was so much more accustomed to it. It made Lord Manderly almost a comfortable figure to have at her side. Almost. She knew what he wished for, she knew how to reward his loyalty. She knew about his ambitions and what to expect from him.

“Indeed, nevertheless, I have called for my uncle, Ser Bryden, to stand as commander of my troops, since we can no longer count on Jon’s position, once he returns. And my great uncle is a far more seasoned commander than Lady Brienne, though we appreciate her service most dearly.”

Lord Wyman gave her a tight smile, the dig at his lack of action towards Jeyne Poole, while she was believed to be Arya, landing easily enough.

Brienne would take on the role of commander of the guard of the royal household. Sansa would not have a Kingsguard in the North. Blind men to follow the whims of a child, for that was what little Eddard still was. Sansa would not have men sworn to protect the King and only him, ignoring whatever harm came of it. She would not endorse men to stand still while a King beat a Queen, like the Kingsguard were known to have done time and time again over the ages. _No_. While the regency was hers, Royal Household Guard sounded much better to her. Much safer.

“Very wise, my Lady, the Blackfish is well seen by the North.” He nodded solemnly. “Would you say the Riverlands and the Vale would join _us_ , should a war against this Dragon Queen come to be?”

The Vale and the Riverlands that were tied to _her_. By blood and oaths. By secrets that would never be shared. To keep them by the North’s side would always mean to keep faith with her. While the Riverlands might yet choose to follow Robb Stark’s child, Catelyn Tully’s grandchild, the Vale was not so. The Vale was bound to her and she would keep it so.

She would not have Lord Manderly – nor any northern lord – believe the Vale to be a force that could be detached from her. She had suffered for it. Their loyalty. Had been humiliated in her service to them as acting Lady of the Eyrie while disguising as a bastard. Sansa Stark would be damned if the North presumed the Vale would side with them should they turn from her. She would not leave her position no matter how secure, her safety, to chance again. Never again.

“The Riverlands have been ravaged by wars on all fronts, my Lord, they will argue their impartiality until their last breath, as it is wise of them to do. The Vale is not known for taking sides, but they can be swayed. As they have been before. Nevertheless I suppose it depends on the kind of threat Daenerys Targaryen presents herself as – a madwoman or a conqueror. They shall consider their options and act accordingly, I trust.” She took a moment to consider her next words. “My brother Bran has informed me that the Dragon Queen lost one of her dragons to the Night King.”

“I see.” He raised a brow in thought. “If we were to make weapons against the ice dragon it could not be called an act of war,” he contemplated, sharp in his assessment.

Sansa offered him a smile. “Indeed, my Lord. We could even destroy them once the war against the undead is hopefully won, as an act of trust. A gracious show of goodwill.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Not all I trust?”

She nodded slowly. “This, of course, would take a great deal a secrecy, I have already begun constructions under the directions of my brother Bran, nevertheless it seems wise that the _Scorpions_ , as he calls them, be built elsewhere, far from the stare of those who will come to be our guests, yet close enough to Winterfell so they might be called upon, need be.”

“Castle Cerwyn is the closest to Winterfell.”

“Yes. Followed by Hornwood.” Lands Sansa had gifted Lord Manderly, in the absence of heirs from Lord Hornwood and Lady Donella Manderly, his sister.

“You do not trust-”

Sansa shook her head, she did not wish to have him believe he knew her mind. Not on this.

Yet Lord Cerwyn had proposed marriage to her, not long after Jon had left for Dragonstone. A marriage she had delicately pushed aside. While the head of her household, she could have brokered the marriage herself, but with Jon, her kin, as her King, it would have been disrespectful of her not to ask his blessing beforehand, so she had eagerly used his absence as an excuse to refuse him. Now she had no such thing, once again she had her own hand to give away and so easily could he become an enemy for his wounded pride once she refused him once more. While not a Lord with the most significant holdings, he was still a Lord and he could still become a threat. She would not depend upon him. Not him, who was still young and eager to prove himself to the more seasoned lords that made her bannermen.

“Not at all, Lord Cerwyn is a fine young man. I simply place my faith more comfortably on you, my Lord Manderly,” she praised him easily enough.

Lord Manderly had no sons or grandsons to bind her with, no men to offer in marriage. No northern Lord he would like best to have by her side. To own her, lead her, _force_ her. Having her unmarried suited him just fine. Having her unmarried and with him as trusted council was most favourable towards his interests, towards the prosperity of his house. 

He swelled like a peacock but cleared his throat to regain his composure. “While a good plan my Lady, it rests on the Dragon Queen not considering us a threat while she remains here. To believe our good intentions.”

“Yes. I would think that the North is patient enough to indulge her for the duration of her stay in Winterfell. To show her the courtesies befit a Queen, although a foreign one. We shall be attentive hosts to her needs. Of course she should be more concerned with taking care of the threat Cersei Lannister poses before wasting even more men here, and if she isn’t, our display of good faith will not be necessary and the Scorpions that we have here will be put to good use. Make no mistake, my lord, our response to her shall be brutal, need be.”

The pleasure on his face was clear. Lord Manderly was tired of pleasantries, bored with pretending to serve southern Kings, Bolton Lords, bastards… Lord Manderly, and many of her bannermen, wanted an independent North. Wanted to pay no taxes that would be sent to Kingslanding. Wanted to fight no wars unless they served to free the North or avenge it. They did not want war, but they were not against fighting one. They wanted honour and glory, and most of all, they wanted freedom. And they respected strength.

Sansa Stark could be strong. And if not, she could pretend to be.

“No southerner ever managed to conquer the North in a thousand years. And it was well recorded how ill-at-ease Queen Alysanne’s dragon was,” he informed her. “Perhaps we shall have the same luck with her beasts.”

“Yes, it would serve us very well indeed. Would you gather all the information you could about the subject? About Daenerys Targaryen and her journeys in the south as well?” she requested of him.

“I already am my Lady, I shall bring the information to you at once.”

Sansa smiled, pleased with his preparation.

“Of course there is the matter of Jon Snow,” he prompted her, his tone grave and his eyes searching. “He will have to be dealt with, most urgently. Put in his place if you will.”

She lost her smile immediately and her face turned regal. She could not have him presume to command her.

“Jon Snow remains my kin and as the head of my household he will be dealt with by me. Though no doubt his mistake was serious, he had not the authority to make it. His words empty, as he no doubt knew. His power was contingent to Northern will, he was aware.” She spoke words she was not sure of. “He is not a fool, the man my lords hailed as King. Until we know the true circumstances of his choice, we will reserve punishment,” she decreed, leaving no room for argument. Reminding them, who was it that chose him. That rose him above the trueborn child of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully.

Perhaps not Manderly, neither Locke nor Flint that followed his lead. Yet when little Lyanna Mormont hailed Jon Snow King in the North while she stood beside him, they had stayed silent. And that was enough of a betrayal to hold over Lord Manderly’s head.

“Nevertheless -” she sighed, aware of the circumstances “- by bending the knee to her, whatever authority the North had over him has been made null and void. He’s her subject now.” It was what scared her the most in truth. He unmade himself. Pushed aside whatever protection she could afford him. Placed himself perhaps too far from her grasp and yet she _could not_ lose him. Would not.

“By your will, my Lady.” He bowed his head recognizing a command when he heard one.

She was far too eager to change the subject and there was no hiding that.

“I wish for you to call for your granddaughters to court, they will be safer here either way and I would like Wylla to grow accustomed to Winterfell,” she asked softly, her meaning clear.

He grinned. “My Wylla shall be honoured to serve as your lady-in-waiting.”

“I shall be honoured to have her in my service as well. I have heard how bravely she made her loyalty to House Stark known in those troubled times before we took back our seat. A girl so alike her grandfather will be a welcomed addition to my household. House Manderly has always been most loyal to us, I will not overlook such a precious thing as that, my lord,” Sansa promised him.

He smiled but understood her meaning. Understood that she did not ignore his failings, the same way she hadn’t and would not ignore others. Kin or not. She simply choose to overlook them, for the time being, to give them a chance to redeem themselves in service to her and house Stark.

“It’s truly a marvellous thing, to have a Stark of Winterfell once more to rule us. May your rule be long, my Lady,” his tone was solemn, and Sansa remembered Bran’s words.

_The Queen in the North in everything but name._

They all joined in Lady Westerling’s solar that evening, the former rooms of her Lady Mother were the warmest in the keep and spending time all together sounded lovely when one considered they might not have much of it left.

The Blackfish stayed drinking ale in the Great Hall with the Vale Lords, his voice purposefully loud as he recalled tales of war against the Mad King Aerys, about his lunacy, about Targaryen rule, fire and blood and madness.

Sansa and Ser Brynden Tully had shared a look before she left the hall. They were in agreement. They would be allies in all the wars to come, be it dragons, lions or wights. They shared between them the desire to keep Robb Stark’s legacy alive. Catelyn Tully’s death meaningful. Protect Eddard Stark and everything he meant. They would be allies even if she couldn’t afford for them to be kin. He knew what he had to do, which lords he had to rally, which ones she already had, without her needing to ask, without her needing to explain. It was a comfort to not have to play the game alone.

“I’ve heard the rumours,” Lady Westerling began with, making Sansa look up from the leather strap she was using for her Uncle’s cloak. “That Daenerys Targaryen comes here, expecting the North’s bended knee.”

“ _Treachery is a coin Targaryens know well,_ ” Bran choose to say, his eyes vagrant, which made her believe those words were not his own.

“They meet it with Fire and Blood, do they not?” Lady Westerling recalled, concern thick on her voice, as if any in the room could forget the burning of kin, even if they had never met them, the stories old Nan had told them all in their youth present in their memories. “And with three dragons at that… what can we expect but-”

“Two,” he corrected, making Sansa turn to him at once, interested that he was sharing this information with Jeyne Westerling as well. “She lost a dragon to the Night King on a wight hunt to save Jon, bitter tears she cried as her monster fell.”

“That was unreasonably stupid of them,” Arya said with a puff, shaking her head in disapproval.

“If she cares for Jon Snow perhaps she cannot be that unreasonable. To lose one of those she calls her children to save him… perhaps she’s not as cruel as we first assumed.”

“The men who burned alive in the Reach would disagree,” Arya was quick to tell her with an eyebrow raised as she leaned back on her chair. “And you don’t know Jon. He’s no doubt her hostage, he would never bend the knee to a Targaryen, she most likely forced him. He did what he had to do to come back home, to us,” she defended him, confident in her beliefs.

Such devotion to Jon Snow, such trust in a man she had not seen in years. And yet she offered not a shred of it to her sister, to the woman she had shared halls with for moons, the woman who sewed her shifts and hemmed her trousers and offered her freedom, offered her safety. How dearly Arya held own to the beliefs of her childhood.

Sansa almost admired it, how dearly she held on to that childhood. Jon was _good_ , there was no doubt, deserving of this love her sister gave without second guessing, but was Sansa not deserving of at least a drop of it? A moment of hesitation before doubting her intentions. A question before raising an accusing brow. How dearly she wished for it.

“I only meant-” she sighed “- Torrhen Stark bent the knee, did he not? To avoid Dragonfire, to save the North from dragons. As you say Jon Snow did,” she tried again.

Sansa watched the exchange curiously and planned accordingly, only sharing a look with Jeyne Poole who was sewing as well in the chair across from her.

As the King’s mother, Lady Westerling would require ladies-in-waiting as well. Sending Jeyne would have been an easy choice, but Lady Westerling would never have trusted her with any careful information if she was a clever woman. Everyone knew Jeyne’s loyalties were solely to her, and Sansa herself wouldn’t bear to be parted from Jeyne, not when so many enemies were closing in.

Sansa would send Wylla instead. Wynafryd would stay with her and Wylla would be Lady Westerling’s companion, her boisterous nature would make Lady Westerling leave her shell, hopefully. Confide in her. Whispers that would reach Sansa as soon as she made them. Wylla was a Stark loyalist, of that there was no doubt and she would be put to good use.

Arya nodded slowly. “I never said he was right to do so. And Starks burned all the same,” she countered with and Sansa was glad to know this would not be an issue she and Arya would clash over.

“No harm will come to your son, my Lady,” Sansa assured her, finally choosing to intervene, “Little Eddard is the North, surely, a symbol of independence, but he is still a child, a babe. No one would confuse the banners others carry for him for his true intent,” she spoke gently trying to sooth a mother’s fears, if that were all they were.

While little Eddard was the North’s symbol, Sansa was its hands. They would come for her first. Him they could yet mould to their liking. To their purposes, as they once did her. A Stark pawn was always needed. A key to the North was a good thing to have. One of the reasons she had been kept alive. Had Robb’s will been known… she wondered if she would have been kept alive at all.

“That mattered little when they killed Elia Martell’s children,” Lady Westerling’s voice was sharp and true.

Not a sound was heard in the room.

“ _Lannisters._ Lannister orders killed those babes and their mother. Baratheons didn’t see fit to punish them for the brutal slaying of _dragonspawn_. And both an Arryn and a Stark looked away. All dead they are now,” the three-eyed-raven spoke, breaking the silence. “Perhaps because of it. The Gods and their irony.”

“Bran!” Arya called out in defence of their father. In defence of the dead, but Bran did not lie, and it was difficult to argue for their father in the face of children’s deaths.

He turned his eyes to her and waited for her to argue with him, almost in challenge.

“The North has decided. They will not bend, Lady Westerling. And whatever I could do to sway them to do so would be an insult to your late husband, my brother, and my mother. Wouldn’t you agree?” Sansa asked, an effort to put an end to the subject, hoping for it to be enough.

Lady Westerling’s face fell at the mention of Robb. “I’m only concerned…”

“I understand, I do. And I share your concerns, I share your fear. We will keep peace with Daenerys Targaryen as long as we are able. Worry not. We will do our best to avoid yet another war.” _But we shall not bend_ , was left unsaid but no less heard.

“And if the choice is to bend or burn?” she asked, chin held high in something almost alike defiance. “He is my son. My only son, can you understand? Can you truly understand my fear?”

Sansa tilted her head to the side considering this sudden bravery in Lady Westerling, this courage built from fear.

He was Robb’s son. And as such Lady Westerling’s will no longer mattered. Because little Eddard was the son of the North now. Much more than he was hers and they would fight her for him, should the need arise. They would dispose of her if she became bothersome and Sansa would not have that. She had to protect her, for Robb’s sake, for little Eddard’s. Even if her protection sounded like a threat. Lady Westerling had to understand before she made a mistake Sansa would not be able to deliver her from.

“I cannot ask them to bend,” she told her simply. “I cannot ask men who have lost sons and fathers, brothers and cousins fighting for freedom from the Iron Throne, for justice against Targaryens, and Baratheons, and Lannisters to fight for a chair. I cannot ask them to fight for another when all they have ever wanted was to have an independent North. A North who doesn’t bend to an outsider’s will. I cannot ask for bended knees when all they have ever fought for was to stand. I cannot and I will not,” her word was final, though her tone was light.

And if she did – if Sansa Stark asked the North to bend – they would replace her with someone clever enough not to. The same they had done to Jon. There was no question to that. Stark or otherwise, they would find another to lead them and that could not be. They could not lose Winterfell, not again. They were stronger within the walls of Winterfell and Sansa would fight for them never to lose it again. Never again.

“If the choice is to bend or burn then we shall burn.” The true answer came from Jeyne Poole. Who only lifted her eyes for a moment to stare at the King’s mother. “And there will be honour to burning when the alternative is to fight for someone who would give us such choice. Better to die with dignity than to serve in shame to the likes of such monsters once again.”

The silence was heavy, while their hearts beat loudly to the memories Jeyne evoked. Lady Westerling was not brave enough to defy the steel in her words. Not the Lady of Whitefort that had survived the unimaginable. She, Jeyne Poole, that would rather die free than suffer worse horrors. Sometimes death was kinder. Life could be crueller. And many times it was. Many times it had been.

“Sansa,” Bran called for her attention drawing out the rest of the conversation. “A man will come to Winterfell. A broken man who has sinned time and time again for what he knows as love will swear himself to fight the dead. You will argue for him to keep his life, for you will have use for him later on.”

Sansa nodded, knowing she would never deny him anything. Not him who knew all that was and would come to be.

“Might you tell me which sins, brother?”

“Sins you cannot forgive and yet must put aside. I will not burden you with their knowledge.”

She supposed there was mercy in that. Sansa took a deep breath and looked to Arya for a moment, her sister who was staring right back at her.

"It's late, we should all retire and leave Lady Westerling to her rest. Jeyne, would you take the babe to the nursery and ask Lady Brienne to take Bran to his chambers?" Sansa asked her softly.

Jeyne nodded, understanding crossing her features. Sansa took Arya’s hands and pulled her slightly for her to follow, "Come, I'll tend to your hair."

She had expected more of a fight, but Arya went willingly, sitting on their mother's vanity that she had changed from Lady Westerling’s room along with most of her mother's remaining possessions.

Sansa stood behind her. Undid the manly knot she carried around with that reminded her so much of Jon. Took her mother's ivory brush and carefully started untangling the knots just like she used to do to her when Sansa was a child. Arya was uncommonly silent as she did this. Dutifully sitting and avoiding her stare from the mirror.

Sansa took a deep breath then, in preparation.

"When the dragon queen comes, you will be careful around her Arya, do you hear?" It was not a request. And it did not surprise her just how much her voice sounded like her mother as she kept running the brush down her hair.

It wasn’t that Sansa believed Arya would openly challenge the woman, like she had once done to Joffrey, raise sword and strike without thinking. It was simply that Arya was wild where Sansa was contained. It was that her fierce loyalty made her rash. That her desire to protect her family, to protect Jon and those she deemed deserving of it, made her dangerous. Made her unpredictable most of all and Sansa could not afford such gambles at this moment in time.

"Does the Lady Stark command me?" she mocked with a smirk, staring at her from the mirror unabashedly now.

Sansa simply nodded, not wanting to turn this into a fight but needing Arya to understand the severity of her words. The true command they were, just this once. Not the request of a sister but the command of the Lady of the household.

Arya scoffed, but remained amused. "Afraid she'll like me more than you perhaps? The She-wolf of Winterfell above the Lady of the North. They call us that have you heard?"

She had. _She-wolf_ was a perfect description for Arya. _Lady of the North_ was one step away from queen, it did not escape anyone’s notice, it would not escape the Dragon Queen’s council either when they came.

"Afraid she'll burn you alive."

Arya’s head snapped around to face her.

"Would you let her?" her voice was small as she wondered. As if she was unsure of her answer. Sansa gently pushed her chin forward so she would face the mirror once more. She couldn't bare those grey eyes of hers. What they reminded her of. Dying and knowing life again. Ned and Jon Stark.

"Don't be silly. No dragon of hers will come near you. Jon would not allow it, I have no doubt. That does not mean I give you leave to give her cause," she cautioned her again.

"But what about you, what can you do against dragons though?" she pushed on.

"I have armies to protect you with. My own body need be," Sansa shrugged.

Arya seemed to hold her breath for a moment. "You don't mean that... "

Sansa frowned but did not take her eyes from the task at hand. "I've died and killed for you Arya. What makes you think I wouldn't do so again?” Arya remained impossibly still and so she felt the need to carry on. “Lady died in Nymeria’s place. I came down the mountain for you, I revealed myself a Stark to get you back. There's no need to doubt my love for you Arya, my commitment to your safety-"

"More than Jeyne?" A question a little girl might have asked, and Arya sounded so young as she did.

Sansa frowned and shook her head. "It's different, Arya."

She nodded slowly. "Yes. You wanted her as a sister. And you never wanted me at all." Sansa could almost hear the tremble in her voice surprising both of them with the burst of emotion.

Sansa gave her a sad smile. She might have hugged her, had she believed she would accept it.

There was truth in her words. She had wanted a different sister once. Someone she could embroider with, share dreams and tales. Someone more similar to her. Someone like Jeyne, or Beth Cassel, or Margaery Tyrell. _Shae_. How dearly she missed Shae. Someone like Myranda Royce or even Mya Stone. Someone whose behaviours not allowed in Sansa wouldn’t be rewarded in a sister, like they were with Arya by their Lord father.

"She was cruel to me when we were children, do you deny it?"

 _Horseface_. Sansa remembered.

"No. I do not. And I am sorry she hurt you. I am sorry I did not stop her, I am," she assured her, placing her hands on her shoulders for a moment, and staring back at the reflexion of her eyes in the mirror. "But Jeyne has been through so much strife and I won't call upon her to ask forgiveness for things she said in her youth.”

“We have all suffered,” Arya whispered, looking away.

Not like Jeyne. Never like Jeyne. Scars that would never fade and memories she could only hope to replace with kinder ones. Nightmares that she would carry with her until her death. Fears that would never subside, only be managed. Jeyne had suffered most of all and Sansa would protect her like she had been unable to before. She would spare her from whatever hurt and humiliation she could. She owed her this kindness and much more. Her dear Jeyne. Her most darling friend. An innocent girl caught up in the game of thrones. How much she could have been spared from if she hadn’t gone to Kingslanding with her. 

“Yes. We have. And yet Jeyne suffered more than us and had none of the advantages our blood could provide, and nevertheless it were her bonds to this house that made for the reason of much of her pain. She has been through unimaginable trials and you will show her every respect, the same she does to you, no matter the strife of your youth. She has been forced to do things long enough, she will ask your forgiveness if she wants to. And that is something you will have to accept. None of us get the apologies we want or deserve. Nevertheless I am sorry, that I never stopped her from doing so. I hope that eases some of your pain," Sansa made her voice very tender as she said so, since she did not have the courage to hold her.

Arya looked into her eyes for a long while before giving her a nod and standing up to leave, a new braid pulling her hair from her face.

"Will you apologize to me?" Sansa asked with a surge of bravery as Arya turned for the door.

Arya turned back, a frown on her face, unsure of what she was referring to. Sansa didn’t know if it made worse or better that she did not recall.

"For all the times you called me stupid," she reminded her. All the times she had called her so, all the years Sansa had believed her.

"Oh." It took her by surprised, either that she remembered or that she cared. "Yes. Hum... I'm sorry." She was silent for a little while before she carried on, “It was not true. You were not stupid. You never were, I was just…” she did not finish, and Sansa did not need her to. It was enough.

Sansa smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Arya. Truly.”

“Lord Tarly,” Sansa greeted from behind the table. “Please, sit.”

“Lady Stark.” He bowed to her before taking the chair.

“I did not expect your arrival. You were at the Citadel, were you not?” Nor had she been informed of it.

As the son of a house from the Reach it would have been expected of him to ask for shelter from her before settling here, especially considering the war they were facing.

The Lady of Winterfell had no use for a man with not even half of his studies complete at the Citadel. Much less three more mouths to feed. It was unkind of her to think, but no less truthful. He and his family would have been safer if they had remained where they were. Where neither dragons of ice nor fire had interest in reaching. At least for now.

He seemed uncomfortable, but not grieving. Sansa wondered if he had been made aware of what happened in the Reach. She wondered if she would have to be the one to tell him.

“I was. But there was something I learned during my time there… something I had to come tell Jon.”

Yes. _Jon_. Jon with whom he had served in the Night’s Watch. Jon who was nowhere to greet him. Jon from whom he had expected hospitality, instead being met with her, the cold Lady of Winterfell. Jon who would have to explain to him why he had bent the knee to the woman who most likely had burned some of his kin alive.

Sansa narrowed her eyes on the man. “And might you share it with me? If it concerns the battle ahead, if it led you to abandon your studies I’m sure it must be of great importance. I would urge you to confide in me, Lord Tarly.” He shuddered under the title, Sansa could only wonder why. Perhaps he did know what had become of his kin.

She might have been subtler had this been another man. And yet Samwell Tarly had a woman and child, another on the way, pursued a path in which he would never be able to marry her, honour her as he should, only keep her as a whore and showed not a hint of shame. Had not seen fit to ask Sansa for bread and salt before entering Winterfell. She had no true reason to show many courtesies to this man to which she was already extending a hospitality she had no duty to offer except for the friendship he shared with Jon. Something she wasn’t sure would be everlasting after the news she would be forced to share with him.

“Well, hum…” he stammered, and Sansa bit her tongue to keep her face emotionless. She had not the time for this and yet no doubt this was information he felt important enough not to share. “I told your brother- I mean, I told Lord Stark.”

Sansa smiled then but kept the laughter to herself, she had no true desire for it, if not to shame him a little.

“I quite doubt the three-eyed-raven did not know already. Am I mistaken?”

He shook his head and took a deep breath, finding it hard to be under her stare.

“It isn’t that I find you to be untrustworthy, my Lady-” Sansa raised her brows at that.

“And yet you would hide from me information you believe vital to the enemy we face?” She tilted her head to the side.

“Not the enemy we face, but perhaps… the future we hope to build,” he carried on, causing her to frown. “This concerns Jon far more than it would make me comfortable to share without his consent.” And yet he had gone to Bran.

Sansa bit her tongue, she could not demand this information from the man.

“Your loyalty to my – to Jon – is admirable, no doubt. And I shall respect it.” For the time being. “Yet there are other issues we must discuss.”

He frowned. "There are?"

Sansa took a deep breath. "Have you heard of Daenerys Targaryen? Of her conquest." He nodded. “It falls to me to inform you, Lord Samwell Tarly, that while there can be no guarantee, I have been told every lord, high and low who refused to knell burned, in the second field of fire."

He shook his head vehemently. "You cannot mean -"

But she did. She meant it. Every unspoken word.

"My father, he...he was a great lord...how could... No. It cannot be." He chuckled nervously, unsure of his words, of hers.

"Perhaps it is not. He could have bent the knee, forsaken his oaths to Cersei Lannister, to the Iron Throne," she offered kindly, knowing how strong hope could be. Not seeking to take any more from him than she was forced to.

"He would have not.” He looked away for a moment, the information finally settling in his mind. “You are sure? All burnt?"

Sansa nodded.

Lord Tarly raised himself from his seat, all propriety lost to him. “I must… will you forgive me… I must…Gilly…”

“Of course. You have my offer of bread and salt, no harm shall befall you from the men sworn to me,” Sansa promised, reminding him of the old ways, as Samwell Tarly scurried to leave her presence.

He turned to her at once, bowed deeply then, remembering his courtesies, what was expected of him. What he hadn’t until then bothered to concern himself with.

“Thank you, my Lady, for… Forgive me for…”

“Worry not, Lord Tarly, go to your wife and seek her comfort. We shall not intrude on a man’s mourning,” she waved his concerns away, and yet saw an opportunity. “I have wars to prepare for as well, knowledge I need to gather, if there is to be hope for a future at all…” she threw back at him as gently as she was able, hoping he would have a change of heart once he had time to gather his thoughts and consider her words.

He nodded slowly, tears heavy on his eyes as he tried his best to keep himself from showing any more emotion in her presence.

“Will you forgive me, my Lady, if I…” he struggled to speak and Sansa took pity on the man made orphan, like she had been not that long ago, though it seemed like a lifetime.

“Of course, you may leave us. You might come to my Maester if you wish to send word to your kin in Hornhill,” she offered, knowing how dearly she had wished to do so. To hear of the family she had left once some of it had been lost to her, hoping to gain his gratitude as well, for she was not a fool.

“Thank you,” he spoke sincerely before hurriedly taking his leave, bowing all the way to the door.

Sansa was left wondering what was it that had brought him in the first place. She imagined she would know it as soon as the man was made aware how his dearest friend had bent the knee to the woman who killed his kin. Until then, she had to trust Bran would share the knowledge with her, should it be vital to the war ahead.

As soon as Bran had first told her of the Wall she had called all of the bannermen to retreat to Winterfell, they stood with her, analysing this new queen, whose appearance seemed faded against the northern background.

Sansa stared at her unabashedly. She was beautiful no doubt. The way only a Targaryen, a dragon, could be beautiful, from a safe distance.

Her hair the colour of snow, how it might have been impressive in another scenery.

Sansa considered what her life might have become if she had been given dragons on her wedding day to Tyrion Lannister. Would she have burned anyone? She would have flown away no doubt. Far, far away, to the comfort only the cold provided her. She would have given a dragon to Jeyne, so she might use it upon the Bolton bastard. That would have been fair and just. But no. She wouldn't have burned anyone. What a terrible way to die.

She wondered what it took for it. What did it take for someone to burn armies alive. Burns cities to ash. Was it pain? Unimaginable pain that consumes you whole? Makes your legs too weak to stand, too frail to walk, sadness that demands to be felt, sadness that asks for relief, be it death or sleep. No. It couldn't be. No one who smiled like that as the people shuddered over her dragons’ growls could be in that degree of pain.

Sansa knew what it took to kill one man. She knew and it was quite simple. An emotion she had felt hundreds of times only that time it was echoed a thousand fold. _Fear_. Sansa had known fear. For years she knew fear stronger than she knew any other emotion. Sansa feared and so she killed. It was a quick death, not like Rickon’s death – no. A quick death in comparison to what it must feel like burning alive. Quicker than being fed to one's dogs. Much quicker than dying from hunger, than dying from grief. _Yes_ – Petyr's death was quick. She had looked into his eyes through it all and she couldn't quite remember if she blinked, but the feeling of cleaning the tears that strayed from her eyes would never leave her. To this day she knew not if she cried for him or for herself, but it had felt like a waste.

Perhaps it was rage. Rage had been what led Cersei to... _No_. No. It had been fear as well. A walk of shame, a public trial, the Sept she burned, she had burned for fear. Of what else could come. Perhaps there was rage there too, the feelings were easy to confuse, but Cersei Lannister had known rage all her life and she never acted before. She had been beaten and humiliated by her husband for all to see. In front of her father. In front of Sansa herself. She hadn't killed anyone then.

What could Daenerys Targaryen fear that would make her burn thousands alive? Nothing at all. She had burned them because she _wanted_ to. She wanted fire and blood. Like Joffrey, she killed for enjoyment. Because she felt like it.

Sansa looked at her people then. Southern folk clearly underdressed for winter. Horses not ready to face ground covered in ice. People who did not know Westeros, neither their customs nor language. And no women. Had they been left to their own fate in Essos? Alone and unprotected, their temples burned, because they could not further this woman’s conquest? Her quest for a foreign throne. Why did these people follow her… How far did their fear go?

Jon’s eyes were focused on her, confused and questioning. He had smiled at Bran who stood beside her, his face unreadable and eyes empty. The Blackfish stood at her side, his face hard and defiant in posture, Jon did not know who he was, this man who so confidently was her right hand and no doubt did this lack of knowledge trouble him.

Arya stood not beside her. Hidden away in the crowd, inspecting this Queen of his from the obscurity their people provided, like Sansa had her swear to do. She wanted her as hidden as possible from the likes of Varys and Tyrion Lannister. Sansa wanted her safe. No doubt Jon wanted to ask of her, yet he knew what duty demanded of this moment. No familiarity, no warmth, courtesies and titles was what mattered now.

“Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” Jon presented, though his voice seemed uneasy to those who knew him best, it gave her some hope. “Lady Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.” Sansa and Jon exchanged a look for a moment, and she hoped he could see, all that she could not warn him of.

Sansa smiled and gave the Queen a slight bow of the head, which was telling in and of itself and made Jon frown in corner of her eye, while the people behind her, who had only bowed as low as could be required to a foreign ruler.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you,” she flattered her with a pleasant smile, though it lacked true warmth.

Sansa wondered if she smiled like this before asking people to burn or kneel for her. It reminded her of Joffrey’s smile. It reminded her of cruelty on the tip of the tongue, hidden by bright smiles and beautiful faces.

Her lord father might have said “ _Winterfell is yours_ ”, the same as Torrhen Stark to Aegon Targaryen, the same way Sansa Stark had said to little Eddard Stark. Daenerys Targaryen was neither and Winterfell was _hers,_ for the time being.

Sansa might have called her Queen, but of what? Dragonstone? Meeren was no longer hers, rebellions still burning across those lands. Yunkai, Slaver’s Bay… abandoned, forgotten.

“The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Mother of Dragons,” Sansa welcomed her, as she had so many others.

It seemed more honest of a beginning, and the allusion to her dragons seemed to please her, as she did not understand the meaning, though the ones in her council of Westerosi education surely did. They would have to be placated.

Sansa wanted to hold Jon in her arms, to feel his woody scent, to taste home once more. Greet him and offer whispers of comfort in his ear to prepare him for what came next. And yet she could not, and so she turned to Jeyne Westerling behind her who offered her little Eddard who suckled on his thumb wrapped up in furs but easily came to her arms. She turned to Jon first who frowned.

“He’s Robb’s,” she told him, ignoring the woman for a moment.

It spilled out of her mouth like a lie, she was much better at telling lies than she was at speaking the truth now, no matter how Petyr liked to say otherwise to keep her pliant. Jon believed her, nonetheless.

Gaped at the child in her arms. Went over each inch of him and the smile on his face was… breath-taking. She had never seen him quite like this… happy and sad. It warmed her heart. It broke it.

“Your Grace, may I present to you Eddard Stark, our little King in the North,” she said with a smile, not a vicious smile, just a smile of a woman who was happy to have her nephew in her arms, though the distinction didn’t seem to matter much to the woman.

Daenerys looked to Jon expectantly, and when he didn’t look back at her, too enwrapped in the child, in his lost brother by her side, she looked to Tyrion who although not as confused as her, had little in a way of explanation.

“I was under the impression that Jon…”

She was not good with her words this Queen. It served Sansa well.

“While Jon remained in the south my brother's heir, King Robb Stark’s heir came to us. I sent a raven, but the previous ones seemed to have become lost, so I suppose the same thing happened to this one," she mused, feigned a naivete she did not possess.

Yet to deny her words they would have to agree that they were not delivering the North’s ravens to North’s once King. And that, they could not do.

“Perhaps hampered with, by Cersei Lannister,” Sansa offered in way of a cease-fire.

They turned to Varys who did not meet their stare, keeping his eyes firmly on her, like Littlefinger might have done had he been in his position. She would have to be careful about him. He would have to be careful about her.

"Your brother bent the knee to me..." Daenerys Targaryen drawled out, her attempt to keep her emotions tamed hardly achieved.

"The North did not, I'm afraid. A terrible misunderstanding, nevertheless, it seems to have worked for both our benefit. This threat against Westeros resolved, the war that truly matters-”

Both her tone as the carefully impassive features of hers changed all at once and her voice became dangerous as she said, “Lady Stark-”

“We don't have time for all this.” Bran’s voice drowned out all the others, delivering them all from the tiresome courtesies and explanations that would never be sufficient. And Sansa was thankful that Bran knew to take his cues from her. She wanted this spar to take place with a different audience. “The Night King has taken your dragon and with it, the Wall has fallen, the dead march south.”

And so, it began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I took an awful amount of time to update this and I am truly sorry, but this past month has been very complicated. I hope you enjoy it, and I promise next chapter won't take nearly as long. Please let me know if you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> The title is by William Ernest Henley.
> 
> This fic will loosely follow the events of season 7 and 8, adding some book canon, I’ll make it clear as I go.  
> We’ll be dealing with the consequences of Robb having an heir, the Blackfish having survived and Jeyne Poole existing, so none of the Bolton plot happened to Sansa. 
> 
> This will mainly explore family conflicts, jealously and healing around the Tullys and the Starks and political issues. Sansa and Arya won’t be on good terms right away and there will be conflict there, brought forth not by Petyr, whose death was different than in show, but by Jeyne Poole and the jealousy there.
> 
> While this is Jon/Sansa, it will not be the main focus point of the fic, so to not disappoint anyone I’m going to make that clear right away even if I'm still in the early stages of writing this. However, if you’ve read other fics of mine, you’ll be surprised to know that I will be nicer to Jon since I caught him earlier in the story. 
> 
> I hope you give it a go and hopefully enjoy it! 
> 
> And you can always find me on Tumblr: https://sad-hippie.tumblr.com/


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